


Dynasty Decapitated

by coricomile



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-05 05:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5363555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three weeks of freezing his bollocks off, hoping his immune system held out, hoping that the scarecrows would stay far enough away that they could get to Bond's mystical defensive haven. Q didn't consider himself a pessimist, not precisely, but the odds looked shockingly awful. But he believed in Bond and he believed in himself. </p><p>If anyone could survive this thing, it would be them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because every fandom needs a zombie apocalypse story.

Q blew into his cupped palms, the freezing edge of his knuckles pressed to his nose to keep his glasses from fogging. Snow hadn't yet begun to fall, but the thick, heavy clouds above them threatened it. His legs ached from walking, his feet nearly frozen through. If he'd known days ago that he'd be spending any time at all crossing all of bloody England on foot, he would have invested in boots instead of his flimsy Converse hightops. 

Beside him, Bond was a tense, straight line. His cheeks and nose had gone red with the cold, the tips of his ears bright pink where they stuck out from under the beanie he'd pulled on several kilometers ago. Q wanted to pull the hood of his parka up over the matching beanie stuffed on his head, but he couldn't risk losing his peripheral vision. Even with Bond's sharp eyes on the lookout, they couldn't take too many risks. 

"Scarecrow," Bond said softly, chin tipping to Q's left. 

Q glanced over, heart leaping into his throat. He reached for the knife holstered at his belt, frozen fingers locking around the leather handle. It was hilariously low-tech and hilariously poor for doing anything but slashing hopelessly, but it comforted him. 

Across the open field, the thin, lopsided body of the scarecrow lurched towards them. Q couldn't see it clearly from the distance, but he'd seen enough of them already. It would have the same beige, crinkled skin as the others, the same blackened eyes and nails. The teeth would be sharp and yellowed, the hair cracked and brittle as straw. The clothes changed, the names on the IDs found in the wallets changed, but the basics always stayed the same. 

Scarecrows, Q thought grimly. Better than calling them zombies. 

Bond handed over his rucksack and reached for the crossbow on his back. It had been found in the carpark of a sporting goods shop six kilometers from London proper, broken at the riser but next to a duffle bag full of low quality arrows. Q had fixed it inside one of the parked cars while Bond scouted for any useful supplies left in the shop, hidden in the backseat with nothing more than his knife and a lighter running low on kerosene. 

The terror of being alone had made his hands shake as he adjusted the plastic. He'd dropped the scope under the seat and hadn't retrieved it. The thought of not being able to see his surroundings for even those scant seconds won out over something that would be useless in the end. Bond didn't need a scope. He didn't need much at all. 

Q pulled one of the arrows from the rucksack and handed it over, scanning the field for any other scarecrows. As far as he'd observed, they didn't stick to packs but were prone to clumping into groups by accident. The things were thoughtless, but deadly in large numbers. 

Q forced himself to shove aside the thought of what was left of London as Bond nocked the arrow and drew. The scarecrow fell to its knees before collapsing flat onto the frozen grass. Bond replaced the bow on his back, took his rucksack, and began walking again. Q's relieved breath puffed out in front of him, lingering in the chill of the air. 

"Thirteen arrows left," he said. They'd started with twenty-two. Bond had been able to retrieve a few, but the risks of retrieval outweighed the ammunition. Given enough time under the safety of a roof, Q could make a new batch. He couldn't make a new Bond. 

"Two more hours," Bond said, eyes forward. "There's a safe house outside of Bishopton. We'll leave again in the morning." Q nodded and cupped his palms again. 

Bishopton. A two hour drive on light traffic from the heart of London if one wished to be bored enough to visit. He and Bond had been walking for six days and still had two hours left. Q wished dearly for a car, a horse, anything at all that would move them faster. A car made too much noise, was too risky to even contemplate. For as stupid as the scarecrows were, their sense of hearing was incredible and their tenacity almost admirable. 

If he had access to a soundproofed garage and a little electricity, he'd be able to work a muffler into something even the scarecrows couldn't hear. But electricity had gone barely a day after the initial invasion. No workers at the plants, no electricity. No electricity, no hope of connecting to a satellite to see what kind of help, if any, was being offered. No idea of how far the scarecrows had spread. 

"I assume we'll be making a stop at the ROF site," Q said. Bond gave him a quick grin that disappeared almost as soon as it appeared. 

"It's a shame the explosives factory is gone, but the gun propulsion test site should turn up something useful, at the very least," he said. Q snorted, flinching as the dried insides of his nose threatened to bleed. The last thing he needed was frozen blood on him. "Gather what we can carry, though I know it will break your heart to leave all the shiny bits behind."

"I can only pull so many miracles with tape and hope," Q said. To be fair, he didn't actually even have tape. If he weren't afraid of the oncoming nosebleed, he would have laughed. All of MI6's technology at his fingertips for two years and the one thing he longed for was a bloody roll of duct tape. "At some point, I do need materials to work with."

"When we reach the last safe house, you can collect all the scrap metal and wires your heart desires," Bond said. "Until then, pack light and prioritize."

"I do know how to run a mission if you'd care to recall." Q stared at the endless field until his eyes threatened to cross. "And may I ask why we're travelling eight hundred kilometers, _on foot_ , to a safe house when we both know there's a dozen others between?"

Silence greeted him. When he glanced over, his eyes caught on the tight clench of Bond's jaw. A muscle ticked just below his ear. The man beside him was not the same man he'd guided through dozens of missions. The easy, reckless confidence Bond carried into even the most dire of situations had been replaced with something else entirely. He didn't appear frightened, not that Q would know what Bond frightened looked like, but something had switched in him since they escaped London. 

Q missed 007. He could have used the morbid humor at the very least to take his mind off the scarecrows. 

"It's the most defensible place I know," Bond eventually said. "If this is long term, we need a place that can survive through attacks. Nothing else even comes close."

"I trust you," Q said honestly. He had since Silva's attack. He'd risked throwing everything away for Bond then, and he'd do the same now. It was foolish of him and he knew it, but Bond demanded loyalty simply by existing and Q couldn't deny him. "I do wish it were a bit closer, though. I've never been suited for being outdoors."

"Shocking," Bond said. It wasn't much, but it sounded fond. Q tucked his hands under his arms and walked. It would have to do for now. 

\---

There were rules. Bond always stood to Q's right, half a step ahead no matter how quickly Q walked. They only stayed in two-floor homes and only slept when Bond had decimated the stairways. The scarecrows could climb stairs easily, if clumsily, but a ladder seemed beyond their capabilities. If the home being stayed in had no ladder, Bond uncoiled the thick length of rope in his rucksack and lowered Q down to the first floor before jumping off himself. 

Sleep was required for both of them, no matter how restless. Exhaustion led to mistakes and mistakes led to pointless, messy death. 

They traveled only during the day, when the sun was guaranteed to be up for hours, preferably in open areas, away from the congested, densely populated highways. Their path was winding, marked off on the map in Q's pocket. It took them away from major cities and larger villages, adding safety but removing the possibility of raiding large shops and increasing their travel time significantly. 

Bond estimated they'd arrive in three weeks. 

Three weeks of freezing his bollocks off, hoping his immune system held out, hoping that the scarecrows would stay far enough away that they could get to Bond's mystical defensive haven. Q didn't consider himself a pessimist, not precisely, but the odds looked shockingly awful. But he believed in Bond and he believed in himself. 

If anyone could survive this thing, it would be them. 

\---

Safe was perhaps a too generous description of the house Bond led them to. The walls were covered in peeling wallpaper, the kitchen sink gone nearly red with rust. The lone couch in the living room smelled mouldy and Q was grateful that he wouldn't have to go anywhere near it. He eyed the narrow staircase at the end of the hall with suspicion, waiting for Bond's all clear before leaving the doorway. 

There was a stash of ammunition, paracetamol, and pot noodles only slightly past their expiry date, which did quite a lot to endear the house to Q. He dug around in the closet by the front door and found both a ladder and a slightly singed but workable kerosene stove, still partially full. 

He made the pot noodles with bottles from the flat of water hidden in the pantry, thinking idly of Uni. Even then he'd cooked meals with at least mostly fresh ingredients, enjoying the simple chemistry of making food. His stomach hurt from the sheer amount of salt he'd had in the last week. He'd kill for veg. 

"I found us a treat," Bond said from the kitchen doorway. He held up a half emptied bottle of Moscato, eyebrows raised and mouth curled up at the edge. Q tucked away his own grin as he sat at the wobbly thing that had once been a dining room table. 

"Red would have paired much better, but it will suffice," he said. Bond sat next to him, uncorking the bottle and placing it between them. When Q drank, lips pressed against the mouth of the bottle, the sweetness curled around his tongue pleasantly. A present indeed 

They ate in companionable silence, elbows and knees bumping every so often. If they were different people, if things around them hadn't gone to shit, it might have been nothing more than a nice night in between friends. Q wished, briefly, that he'd thought to ask Bond over before and then wondered if Bond would have even accepted. They didn't finish off the wine, leaving the bottom few inches for any poor sod that might stumble upon the house after they'd left. 

"Get the bedding ready," Bond said after they'd cleared away their trash. It was absurd, Q thought, doing the cleaning up. But it was routine and Q liked it a bit for simply being familiar. "I'll take down the stairs."

Q gathered up his own rucksack and made his way gingerly up the stairs. They had held Bond's weight easily, but they creaked something awful and it made him nervous. Survive the zombie outbreak, die tripping down the steps. It seemed fitting in a morbidly ironic way. 

He peered in at the rooms along the hallway. They were devoid of personal belongings, all of them as sparse as they could be. Q preferred this to the homes they'd broken into. This way, he didn't have to think of the bodies that should have been occupying the space he was. This way, he didn't have to feel remorse for them. 

The room at the farthest point from the stairwell was the smallest. It held one bed, one dresser, and a wardrobe with spare bedding. Q set his rucksack on the dresser and stripped the dusty sheet from the twin mattress. It would be a tight fit for the both of them, but the room with the larger bed was giant and would hold cold longer. 

The sun had gone down while they'd eaten. Q stared out the window, still uncomfortable with the sheer darkness. He'd lived in London his whole life. The lights never went off and neither did the sounds. Even quiet spaces had been full of inconsequential sounds. Electronics humming, people breathing, cars running on the motorways. The sound of Bond hacking apart the stairs was too loud in the silence. If any scarecrows were nearby, they'd already be running to their location. 

Q piled three quilts on the mattress and pulled his parka off. The house was cold, but without the wind cutting through it was bearable. He tried not to think of going back outside. He untied his shoes, placed them neatly at the foot of the bed, removed his glasses, and reluctantly pulled off his jumper. 

By time he'd crawled under the quilts, shivering at the coolness of them against his skin, Bond had finished securing them. He was a dark blur as he entered the room, already pulling off his own jumper and toeing off his shoes. He'd be asleep minutes after he hit the mattress. Q envied his ability to sleep anywhere, anytime. Even before everything, Q hadn't slept well. There was always something to do, something to learn, something to keep his mind moving. 

Bond crawled in next to him, barechested and blessedly warm. Even turned on their sides, Q facing the window and Bond facing the far wall, the bed barely held the both of them. Bond's back was a bit damp where it pressed against Q's, his sweat bleeding through Q's vest, but Q could suffer it if it meant warmth. 

It had been strange the first few times they'd crawled into bed together. Q hadn't slept with anyone in a long time. Not since his Uni boyfriend. The sudden awareness of another body so close to his had been uncomfortable. Sleeping together made the most sense, even if it made Q feel squirmy and childish. Body heat for one. Safety for another. Bond insisted Q slept against the wall, which was pointed in all that he didn't say, and Q didn't fight him. It left him blind, the nightstands almost never on his side, but he trusted Bond to take down any intruders, human or scarecrow, in the time it would take him to fumble on his glasses. 

"Goodnight, Q," Bond muttered, pulling the quilt up over his shoulder. He didn't fidget in his sleep, didn't snore, didn't do anything at all to make himself take up more space than necessary. There was something almost sad about it, but Q couldn't quite put his finger on what. 

"Goodnight, 007," Q replied softly. 

Sleep did not come easily. There was no room to make himself more comfortable, no music to focus his mind on. Q matched his breaths to Bond's, in on Bond's exhales, out on Bond's inhales, their bodies chasing each other in minute motions. When exhaustion finally took him, Q dreamed.

He dreamed of the news feeds reporting the scarecrows popping up in hospitals, violent and rabid, their sandbag faces covered in blood. He dreamed of 002's failed mission to a research facility in France, of her voice cutting off and reappearing an hour later in Q's ear, haunting and drowning in blood, of the last glimpse he'd had of what was left of her. 

He dreamed about the orders. They had come across his screen too late for him to interfere. He'd been too busy with external work to look into internal affairs. He'd been too busy going on pointless chases for the source when he should have been looking at the conflict resolutions. 

He dreamt about the bombs falling across Europe, wiping out cities full of scarecrows and people doomed to die.

Q jerked awake, elbows flailing and legs kicking against the heavy weight holding him down. He couldn't see, couldn't hear anything other than the frightened, pained screams all around him. Something grabbed his chin, forcing his head still, and Q kicked harder. The scarecrows had survived and the living hadn't.

"Q." Fingers dug into his jaw, the sharp press of nails in his skin as infectious as a bite. He hoped Bond killed him before he turned. " _Q_."

Bond. Bond pinning him down, nothing but a smear of grey and blue in the utter darkness of the safe house. Embarrassment slammed into him as he stilled against the mattress. He felt hot all over, sweat clinging to his lower back and under his arms. Bond didn't move.

Q closed his eyes and tried to block out the screaming. It was hallucinatory, just the same as the smell of smoke surrounding him, but his mind couldn't turn it off. The tunnels of Q-Branch had fallen easily, pre-placed explosives meant to destroy evidence in the case of an attack working as perfectly as Q had imagined them during the re-design. He hadn't imagined being inside while it happened. Hadn't imagined the tearing of the bodies of his team- his friends, people he knew and trusted- as concrete and steel ripped through them. 

Hadn't imagined bodies rising up from the debris to chase after him. 

"Breathe, Q," Bond said softly. He released his hold gently, stroking a thumb over the soft week's growth of beard on Q's jaw. Q squeezed his eyes shut tighter and did as he was told. He felt like a child, stupid and immature. Nightmares. Pathetic. "Breathe."

"I'm fine," Q choked out, pushing at Bond's chest. Bond hovered over him for a moment longer, palm cupped around Q's cheek, before slowly rolling onto his side of the bed. Q rolled to face the window and pulled the covers up to his neck, even though he felt overheated and breathless. "Goodnight, Bond. I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

"Goodnight, Q," Bond said after a moment. Q felt the hovering heat of Bond's hand over his shoulder and tensed up. He didn't want to be coddled. Not for this. Eventually, the mattress shifted and the quilts pulled against him as Bond settled down. 

Q stared at the grey wall for the rest of the night, unable to force his mind to slow. He'd missed his chance to reverse the Prime Minister's order and had aided in the deaths of millions. Nightmares weren't enough punishment. Nothing would be.


	2. Chapter 2

James speared a slick, unnaturally orange peach from the can at his side and bit half of it off. The sugar shocked his palate uncomfortably, leaving his tongue tingling and his cheeks tasting like metal. He swallowed it down and finished off the remaining half. It wasn't exactly caviar, but the sugar would help keep him alert if nothing else. He craved a cigarette, half of one, anything at all with nicotine. He'd run out on day three and had been twitching ever since. 

He leaned back against the dirty wall of the hall and stared at the supplies fanned out around him. It wasn't enough, not really, but he hadn't been lying when he said packing light was optimal. They still had seven hundred kilometres to go, and the weather was only going to get worse. 

James rested his head against the wall and let his eyes slide shut. Skyfall. He would have burned the place to the ground long ago if he'd had the chance, but he supposed he should be happy that he hadn't. It was the perfect defensible fortress. Near enough to Glencoe to get supplies if they were needed, open land around the perimeter, grounds for hunting. He had no doubt Q could turn it into the most protected place in all of the United Kingdom. 

Any hope James had for salvation had gone up in smoke right along with London. It was a matter of survival now, of outlasting the odds. No one survived like James. Never had, never would. 

James separated the handful of supplies into piles, grouped by type and weight. He'd set out a few appliances for Q to take apart before they left. Priority one was heading to the ROF site. They'd scout the area, hope all the best bits hadn't been looted, and keep on the path to Skyfall. 

Daylight was burning already, the sun up high in the sky. They should have left already, but James had been reluctant to wake Q up. It had been a rough night for both of them, but James had grown used to forcing his body to keep working, no matter the obstacle. Q hadn't. Not yet, at least. That would have to change soon. 

Q shuffled out of the bedroom, jumper back on but shoes still off. A long red line ran across his cheek from where it had been pressed against his pillow. His eyes were sleepy behind the lenses of his glasses. He scratched idly at his jaw as he yawned, the sound of his fingertips against his growing beard faint but audible. It was patchy, made all the more obvious by how dark it was against his skin. He looked younger with it, like a teenager experimenting with facial hair for the first time. 

"You let me sleep in," Q accused, stepping gingerly over the pile of medical supplies and sitting down gracefully next to James. He scooped up the peaches and ate three in a row before wrinkling his nose in distaste. 

"Did I?" James wrapped a rubber band around a stack of batteries and placed them to the side. Q narrowed his eyes but didn't comment. Instead, he bit into another peach, long fingers rushing to his mouth to catch the syrup that dripped from the fork. It left his lips distractingly shiny. James picked up Q's rucksack and stashed the batteries. "I've been thinking."

"Don't strain yourself," Q said dryly. James huffed a short laugh. 

"On the matter of transport," he said, tucking the two torches he'd found in the cupboard in the kitchen next to the batteries. "Bicycles. Quiet, easy to repair or replace if anything goes wrong, and better than walking. Might take a moment to find them, but-"

Q was staring at him, empty can still clutched to his chest, eyes wide. Something dark and worried climbed into his chest as Q stayed quiet. A flashback, maybe? He'd looked fine after he'd gone back to sleep, but James knew better than anyone how fast your own mind could turn on you. He lifted a hand, ready to call Q back again, when Q broke into loud, sharp laughter. 

He doubled over himself, the can rolling away and over the lip of floor where the stairs had been. James stared at him, stunned into stillness. Q let out a soft snort before sitting back up, reaching under his glasses to wipe his eyes. 

"Are you alright?" James asked tentatively. Q had always been brilliant. Maybe he'd broken? Q let out a helpless giggle.

"I just had the vision of you pedalling through the countryside on a child's bike," he said. James chuckled, the anxiety leaving him in a slow wave. "I should have assigned one to you when I had the chance."

"I'll make sure to get you one with a basket," James said. He pulled his rucksack over and began loading it with the heavier items, packing as carefully as he could. As idiotic as he'd look with a basket on a bicycle, it was actually a sound idea. Less weight to carry directly with more room. It wasn't like there were many people to see anymore, he thought sourly. "Take what you want from those and grab your shoes. The ROF site isn't too far."

Q picked through the appliances quickly, tossing some away and fiddling with others, prying them apart with his multi-tool. James loaded up Q's pack, leaving the front pocket open for whatever electronic treasures Q might hoard away. Q had been muttering about making a portable generator for days, fingers twitching in the air as he drew schematics in his head. If it kept his mind occupied, kept him from thinking about London, it would be worth the extra weight.

They left the safe house cautiously, James ahead of Q by two steps, eyes scanning the street. The neighborhood was nearly abandoned before the scarecrows, the safe house barely used, but any number of squatters could have been exposed and lingered behind. James listened carefully, straining for any sound other than Q's soft breaths, and nodded when there were no footfalls.

While the cold air was unpleasantly sneaking up James' sleeves and down through his collar, the sun sat high in the sky, shining down in warm patches. It kept the shadows of the houses from being too dark, painting everything in high, if slightly grey, colors. It was good for spotting the scarecrows, at least, even if it left them exposed to human eyes. 

James had spent years keeping himself hidden from unwanted attention- targets, hitmen, any number of unsavory people that didn't take kindly to him poking about in their business- and it made his skin crawl to leave himself so exposed. More than that, he left Q exposed, armed with nothing more lethal than a pathetic blade. 

He still had his Walther tucked securely at the small of his back, a comforting weight that had seen him through more than its fair share of action. The beautiful thing had become a backup weapon. Loud sounds attracted the scarecrows, sending them dashing towards the source at unnatural speeds. A shot might take out one, but it would bring down a horde more, which couldn't be afforded under any circumstances. 

Give him the shambling, decomposing masses of a George Romero film over the scarecrows any day. Those were predictable. Easy, even.

The ROF site had been abandoned years ago, parts of it torn down and turned into housing that had been used and abandoned. Construction equipment sat around the main building as if the lunch bell had been rung, waiting for the workers to return. They avoided the housing and the rest of the explosives factory and crept toward the second fenced off area. 

There was a sound in the explosives factory. James grabbed Q and pulled him back, shoving himself between him and the sound. He tracked the fence, hand on his gun, and breathed a quick sigh of relief when he caught sight of the closed gate. Padlocked, safely shut. As long as there were no holes in the fencing, whatever had gotten trapped in there should stay in there. 

Still, he kept his hand wrapped around the skinny width of Q's arm. It kept him calm, reassured him that Q was still there. Q tensed but didn't try to pull away. They stuck close to the large fence, walking slowly and carefully. 

When they reached the propulsion testing facility, Q scrambled up the smaller section of fencing, the toes of his trainers slipping neatly between the links, his body maneuvering quickly. He landed with a soft thump, immediately pressing his back against the fence. James followed him over, ignoring the unease of being trapped. He'd never done particularly well with cages.

The building was squat and flat, the masonry as drab as any other military facility James had ever seen. It was surrounded by a thicket of trees that had shed their leaves some time ago. A rogue shiver worked its way across James' spine. The place left him unsettled. Not that there was much left in the world these days that didn't.

"Be quick and stay close," James whispered. Q nodded, his hand hovering over the knife on his belt momentarily. They needed to find a long distance weapon for him, another crossbow maybe. He learned weaponry quickly when given the chance, but that chance seemed to be slipping away the longer they stayed out. 

James picked the lock to the lab and eased the door open. Towering shadows stood on either side, the darkness of the lab barely broken by the tall, narrow windows high on the walls. Q handed him a torch and pulled two arrows from his rucksack, handing them over to James. He pulled another two out after, pinching them between his fingers carefully. 

By the light of the torch, the wreckage of the lab was clearly visible. Tables and computers had been turned over, files scattered across the floor like a layer of dirty snow. A dark smear of what had to be blood crawled across the side of the lab from one end to the other, ending in a dark spray over a closed door. 

There were no bodies. Scarecrows didn't leave bodies. 

Q crept around the main room, leaning down to inspect the shattered computers, sifting through the wreckage with the tips of the arrows, pulling pieces apart seemingly at random and tucking them into the pocket of his rucksack. James stood next to him, bow clutched tightly in one hand, shining the light of the torch in a slow rotation of the room. Everything was silent, save for the shuffle of plastic and metal. 

"I want a look at the range," Q whispered, pushing himself to his feet. "Any prototypes that might be of use would be there. I can't vouch for their completion, but it's the best option." 

James nodded, waiting for Q to fall in behind him before walking carefully across the lab to the room with the splatter of blood across it. He opened it slowly, pushing up to avoid creaking hinges, and scanned the torch across the room. 

"This is rather dreary," Q muttered, the light from the second torch flickering on, aimed at the high ceiling. James stepped aside as Q shimmied past him, hands already stretched out for something or other. 

It took them longer than James was comfortable with to find their way to the firing range. The building wasn't overly large, but it had winding hallways that doubled back on themselves, the damage done enough to make every room look almost the same. The niggling sensation of disquiet lodged itself at the back of James' mind as Q opened the door that led to the range. 

Where was everyone that worked in the building? The laboratory was small, probably only staffed by a few dozen people at most, but there should have been at least some sign of a struggle from the opposing side. He hadn't seen any blood past the front room, hadn't seen any scarecrow corpses. Had they evacuated in time, or been sent away before the attacks became a daily occurrence? 

"Hello there," Q whispered, pausing in front of a locker. He waved his torch until James joined him, tapping his foot impatiently while James picked the lock. James gave a low whistle when the door swung open to reveal a small armoury. "Look at you lovelies. Check the others, will you? Take whatever ammunition you find. If worst comes to worst, I can always take it apart to make something more useful."

"As if I had any doubts." James left Q cooing at the guns, biting back a fond smile. He pulled drawers and opened lockers, resisting the urge to examine the guns more closely, and piled boxes of ammunition into his rucksack. There wasn't as much as he'd been expecting, some drawers entirely empty, others only holding a few boxes. Someone had stockpiled already. 

A shiver worked its way up James' back and he paused. When he looked up, Q was still picking his way through the locker, a half disassembled automatic rifle at his feet. Carefully, slowly, James turned, the light of his torch catching on the pane of glass separating the loading room from the firing range itself. 

In the far corner of the glass, a pair of black eyes stared back at him. 

"Scarecrow," James said, yanking his rucksack back over his shoulder as the scarecrow let out a high, screeching wail. Q startled, dropping something heavy and metallic to the ground. Three more voices joined in on the scarecrow's wailing. James backed towards Q, aiming his torch towards the sound. There were six clear bodies pressed to the glass and a rustling of shadows behind them. "Move. Now."

James grabbed Q's arm and yanked, running back through the hall. The scarecrow's voices followed them, echoing off the walls and filling the entire building with sound. Q stumbled, shoving James off of him to right himself. James grabbed him again, unwilling to be separated. Q was the asset. Q had to be protected at all costs. 

Glass shattered and James swore. Great buggering fuck.

They raced through the offices and back out through the front door. The sunlight was blinding after the darkness, spots filling James' vision and throwing him off momentarily. Q pulled him along, already breathing heavily. He wouldn't be able to go much farther.

"Shit." Q raised one arm, waving frantically at the fence on the far side. " _Shit_."

Twenty scarecrows pressed against the fence, their bodies contorting as they pounded against it and each other. The foul, thick stench of them hit James in a rush, leaving him breathless. Six more were running towards the crowd already formed, the sound of all of them deafening. Every scarecrow in town would be on them in minutes. The fence wouldn't hold for much longer.

James' fingers tightened on Q's wrist, too hard, too much, but he could not, under any circumstances, let Q stop moving. 

The plan to hop the fences and move back towards the open fields was out. James yanked Q around the side of the building, hoping the sharp turn would buy them any sort of time from the scarecrows bursting through the doors of the testing facility. 

A second turn caught them up in a tangle of overgrown shrubbery. The fence had been knocked down on this side, folded over under the weight of a fallen tree. One less defense. James' mind raced as he tried to narrow in on escape, coming up with nothing at every turn. 

"We have to go up," James said when Q jerked to a stop. He was out of breath and they were out of time. 

Moving up trapped them entirely, leaving no room for escape at all, but it would get them away from the scarecrows long enough to formulate a plan. The predatory creature in James roared at the thought. 

"How exactly do you propose we do that?" Q asked through deep, ragged breaths. The wailing of the scarecrows had doubled in volume, filling the air. 

"I hope you climbed trees as a child." James took in all the candidates, vibrating with fear and anger, and grabbed a fistful of Q's jacket to lead him to the far corner of the facility. The tree was narrow and leaned a bit away from the building, but the branches looked sturdy enough to hold them one at a time. Q stared up at it, his face drained of color, eyes wide behind the lenses of his glasses. Sweat clung to his temples and damped his hair down.

"I've never climbed a tree in my life," he said. 

"Get to the lowest branch and wait. I'll find a path when I'm up." James squatted next to the trunk, cupping his hands. A sharp crack tore through the air, followed by the thud of too many footsteps to count. The fence had gone down. 

Q didn't hesitate, even though the fear poured off of him heavy enough to feel. He placed one foot in the cradle of James' palms, one hand braced on James' shoulder, the other on the trunk. James counted him off and lifted when Q jumped. 

Q's fingers caught in the space between two branches, his legs flailing for a moment to find a foothold. He pushed too hard, nearly toppling over the edge of the branch as he pulled himself up. He wrapped his arms and legs around the branch, looking for all the world like a frightened cat. When he'd shimmied out of the way, James took a running start and lept. 

"Just copy what I do," James said, already reaching for the next branch. Q swore but followed blindly, his faith almost staggering.

Climbing trees was something he'd done as a boy. It had been exciting then, even the once that he'd fallen and injured his wrist, the first broken bone of many. It was as natural as breathing, finding footholds, handholds, the press of the trunk against his chest reassuring. When he reached the branch just above roof height, he paused, looking down to track Q's assent.

Four scarecrows stood at the base of the tree, clawing at the bark, black eyes locked on them. One was missing a half of its arm, the stump leftover waving as if it could feel the phantom of its hand. Q didn't look down and James was glad. 

James took Q's hand and pulled him up, stepping away from the trunk and letting Q take the more stable ground. Q's arms were shaking, but his jaw was set, his head held high. He would do whatever James asked, no questions, to the best of his ability. 

"Just do what I do," James said gently. The branch ended a metre before the roof started, tapering off into a three-way split. The end would break under their weight if given the chance. James had made more dangerous leaps half exhausted and badly injured, but Q hadn't. If he hesitated at all, if he lost his footing, he'd go down into the waiting maws of the scarecrows. "Exactly what I do, Q."

"Understood," Q snapped, mouth thinning into a tight line. James shuffled as far down the branch as he trusted, arms held out wide to balance, and took a deep breath. Then he jumped.

For a moment, all that existed was the rushing sensation of freefall: wind loud in his ears, vision blurring, gravity changing all around him. He landed hard on his left side, rolling to cushion the impact. A loose stone gouged at his palm, slicing a neat line, the precision of pain clearing out all of his thoughts 

"Now," James said when he'd stood.

Q copied him, swaying too much, going too slow. When he jumped, the laces of his trainers caught on a twig, pulling him back just enough. James leaned out, blood rushing in his ears, and caught Q's arms. Q gasped when his stomach hit the edge of the roof, eyes going wide and hands latching around James' elbows. James hauled him up and over, collapsing onto the roof next to him. 

"You alright?" James asked. Q glowered at him, which was answer enough. 

James let himself have a moment's rest, closing his eyes and mapping out the complex. Nine hundred acres, sixteen buildings, two fences, one of which had been compromised in the worst of ways. The irony of being metres away from an explosives factory, defunct or not, wasn't lost on him. He pushed himself up and took a deep breath. They needed a plan, and he would bloody well make a damn plan. 

The roof was wide and long, littered with tree branches and loose stones. A generator and air duct crowded the door that presumably led down into the building. One of the gutters had come free, stabbing out into the air in a viciously sharp angle. James tested the door, relieved to find it locked. One good thing in the massive pile of shit they'd gotten themselves into. 

He looked down over the edge, hand edging towards his gun. The scarecrows were moving too quickly to get a proper headcount, but James estimated, at least, a hundred. A quick scan of the open grounds showed no more rushing towards their location, but that meant very little in the end. 

"Give me your bag," Q said, patting his pockets until he found the mini toolkit he'd somehow managed to keep on him after escaping the wreckage at MI6. James shrugged his rucksack off and set it down next to him. Q pulled out the kerosene stove he'd taken from the safe house, taking off pieces and placing them into uneven piles. He paused for a moment, eyes vacant and lips moving soundlessly. "Shave down a few branches, I need kindling."

Q worked quickly and quietly, hands steady as he disassembled the stove, not budging at all when James removed the knife from his hip. James wanted to know what he was planning, any insight at all, but he had the feeling Q wouldn't hear him stuck so far inside his own head. 

James fetched and held and complied with Q's quick, brusque demands, watching as the base of the stove was cracked open. Q handed him an emergency candle, a small scrap of metal that had a mostly even lip, and the lighter that had once been James'.

"Chip half of that down and heat the pan to melt it," Q said, setting the stove's base on the roof and turning in slow circles, eyes darting between their packs. "Keep the wick intact. Where's the-" He trailed off, dropping to his knees and fishing through the front pockets of James' rucksack. "If I had a bloody bag of packing peanuts we'd be set."

"I'll pop down to the mailroom, shall I?" James asked, ready for the two finger salute that answered him.

James hacked at the candle with Q's knife obediently, stopping every few moments to heat the underside of the tin to melt the wax. When it was half full, Q dumped a handful of bark shavings in with it and shook James' wrist, hands kept carefully from the metal. He snatched up the rest of the candle, snipped off part of the wick, and placed the free end in the center of the wax and wood mixture.

"Let it cool. Help it cool if you can," Q said, settling the remainder of the candle next to the stove. 

James wondered if this was what Q in the labs looked like. Focused, snappish, full of plans that seemed to be writing themselves the longer he worked. James had seen Q run missions, had seen him coax computers into doing impossible things, but he'd never seen Q create, and it was breathtakingly beautiful. 

When the wax had cooled, Q pried it from the tin and slid it into the base of the stove, threading the wick through a screw hole on the side of the lid and reattaching it. Bits and pieces of the inside were strewn around him, thrown carelessly away as useless. 

"An explanation would be appreciated," James said as Q lit the candle. The flame flickered for a moment, flaring up as the wick caught properly. 

"I'm your quartermaster," Q said. He turned the lighter over in his hand, frowning down at it. "I'm equipping you with a weapon. Any attachments to this?"

"Not particularly." James still winced when Q snapped off the metal top with his multi-tool. "Though I imagine we would have wanted to keep that around."

"If we survive, I'll get you another from a petrol station," Q promised, peeling the barrel off. His hand shot out to catch the tiny chunk of flint that popped free, remarkably agile. He pulled the spring straight, wrapped one end tight around the flint, and blew out a short sigh. "Not my best work, I admit, but given the resources at hand, I'm counting it as a success."

"Flint on a string," James said. He raised an eyebrow as Q handed it over. The flint drooped pathetically, swinging in the faint breeze. "All that for flint on a string?" Q ignored him, bending to pick up the candle, hand shielding the flame as he moved it towards the flint.

"Throw it as far as you can when I tell you to," Q said. The flint pulsed with color, slowly heating from black to red to pale yellow. "Now. Far as you can."

James pitched the flint, watching it make its slow, sad descent to the ground, worrying that maybe Q's plan hadn't been as well conceived as he thought. There was a sharp crack when the flint hit the pavement and then a bright explosion of light. Screeches rang out as the scarecrows pelted towards it, tumbling over themselves and scratching at the pavement where the flint spat out a few last sparks.

"Aim for the center," Q said, handing over the bottom of the stove. It felt heavy in James' hands, the sloshing of whatever kerosene left in making it more likely to go rogue when James threw it. Q lit the wick from the candle, letting it burn for a moment before nodding. James threw. 

The thing exploded before it hit the ground, chunks of metal ripping through the scarecrows closest to it, a bright ball of flame roaring to life. It caught on the scarecrows' clothes and dried out hair, expanding rapidly. An agonized sound rose from them as one, then two, then more, dropped to their knees, the stench of burning flesh overwhelming. 

"What," James asked, watching the scarecrows bumbling into one another, spreading the fire out in wide arcs, "the bloody hell was that?"

"The unholy combinations of a flashbang, a molotov cocktail, and badly improvised napalm," Q answered. He sat down with a heavy thump, tension draining from his shoulders slowly. The mad genius had gone back into its cave, leaving the more familiar Q behind. "I think I might be dying. Please don't make me run again for another few days. I'll ride a sodding unicycle if I don't have to run again."

"You're a bloody mastermind," James breathed, adrenaline bubbling up into laughter that he couldn't contain. He lowered himself down next to Q, wrapping one arm around his shoulders and smiling fondly when Q leaned into him. 

"Job requirement." Q pulled his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes, head falling against James' shoulder. A flash of red skin caught James' attention, and he pulled Q's hand in to take a better look. Somewhere in all his mad scheming, he'd managed to burn himself. 

He looked exhausted and frail, too young by far. He was a genius, quick on his feet and sure of his abilities, things James knew as fact. But the possessive, worried part of James couldn't stop looking at the burn, couldn't stop thinking about Q's poor stamina and lack of personal combat training. Given time, given materials, Q could do anything. Backed into a corner, with nothing but his own body to rely on, he would fall. 

Over sixty-four million people in Great Britain. One hundred percent transformation rates, the scarecrow population growing exponentially larger each day. Factoring in damages to civilians and scarecrows from the sixteen bombs detonated, it still left too many bodies. Too many threats. 

James was still in fighting shape, still strong and able and sharp, but one man against several million were odds even he couldn't tip in his favor. In five years, if he lived that long, he'd be fifty. His family hadn't had much in the way of illnesses, but that was before the option of a hospital had been taken away. Something would eventually get him, and he had the feeling it would come sooner rather than later. Q, only twenty-six, still had an entire life ahead of him. Still had time to grow strong.

James held Q tighter, taking in his warmth, and kept his eyes sharp. Mission one was keep Q safe and alive for as long as he could. Mission two was to prepare him to live on after the inevitability of James' death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I weren't already sure I was on a CIA list somewhere, the research for this chapter probably landed me firmly there. Seriously. A look at my search history is all about napalm, pipe bombs, and detailed investigation into the ROF Bishopton site. Don't make bombs, kids. Even if it is apparently way easier than I previously thought. Grievously un-Britpicked. Please let me know if you see anything glaring. 
> 
> Thank you to those of you that left comments. I appreciate and adore them. <3


	3. Chapter 3

"I haven't been on a bike since I was six," Q said, blinking down at the splotchy, hideous thing Bond expected him to ride. It looked secure, the frame showing no signs of rust under the black and white splatters of paint, the spokes of the wheels all straight and even. He pressed down on the front tyre, mildly annoyed when it sprung back nicely. As promised, a messenger's basket hung from the handles. 

"They say you never forget," Bond said, flashing a smug grin over his shoulder. The one he'd claimed for himself was a more subdued black and green mountain bike, sleek and sharp like something out of a catalogue. Q scowled. "It's ride the bike or walk the rest of the way."

"I hate you," Q said. Bond grinned, his eyes as bright as the sky, and threw one leg over the frame of the mountain bike. In his wool coat, beanie, and dirty jeans, he looked like he was posing for some lumberjack photoshoot. The beard, finely blonde and growing into a fullness that Q never managed to achieve, didn't help damage the image. He looked impossibly more handsome now than ever and Q positively _hated_ him. 

"Whatever you have to tell yourself," Bond said. He pressed against the kickstand with his heel and pedaled a neat circle around Q and the monstrosity. 

After the failure that had been investigating the ROF site, they'd travelled more carefully. Q tried not to think about how stupid they'd both been. No sight of enemies didn't mean they didn't exist. He, of all people, should have known that. He'd navigated agents through minefields of would-be assailants enough times to understand the concept. 

He'd managed to get enough spare parts to be useful, but they'd lost their lighter, lost the kerosene stove, and nearly been devoured in the process. No, Q thought, reluctantly straddling the blue banana seat. Scarecrows didn't devour. They _infected_. They didn't eat their victims, didn't seem to eat anything at all. They were a virus. A moving, large-scale virus that Q couldn't understand. 

Zombies, at least in movies, killed to eat. What got turned in the end was happenstance. Logically, if any logic could be applied, they wouldn't last all that long. Food supply would dry out, their bodies would eventually decompose entirely, something would go wrong. They were manageable in some small way, able to eventually be eradicated.

From what little evidence MI6 had managed to gather before- before they'd imploded, the scarecrows didn't eat. They didn't rot, though they smelled like death twice over, and they didn't attack their own ranks. Limbs came off frequently, but that seemed to be more from a disregard for their locations as the scarecrows attacked rather than a flaw in body chemistry. A shot to the head took them down, but a shot to the head took nearly everything down in the end.

Q itched to know more. He wanted to be at his bank of computers, looking for any research that might be hidden away somewhere. That was where he would be useful. That was where he stood any chance in making a difference.

Instead, he was in sodding Nyadd, nicking some poor bastard's bicycle. 

He felt ungainly and awkward as he lifted one foot onto a pedal. The last thing he needed was Bond instructing him like a toddler. He'd cycle off a cliff first. It took him a moment to find his balance, the bike wobbling worryingly before straightening out. The chain had rusted a bit, left out in the damp weather for too long, but it shook out the tightness after a few turns around the tyre. 

"See?" Bond asked, circling him again. "Like you never forgot."

"I'm going to kill you in your sleep," Q said. He pedaled off the soft, spongy grass of the garden of the abandoned house and onto the street. The bike was easier to handle on solid ground. Q had the feeling his legs would tire out after a few kilometres, but he had to reluctantly admit that Bond had been right about the effectiveness. 

"You could try," Bond said, insufferably cheerful. 

As obnoxious as he was, Q was glad to have him back properly. There were still dour moods that came over him and long stretches of silence that left Q hesitant to speak, but those had been common before. Double O's weren't particularly known for their mental stability, but Bond seemed to have figured out his problem and dealt with it when Q wasn't looking. 

"That brings me to a sticking point," Bond said, bringing his bike alongside Q's. The drizzle of rain that hadn't stopped all day clung to his cheeks and nose and collected in his beard. Q wanted to make a sparkly vampire joke, but he wasn't sure if Bond would get it or not, so he kept his mouth shut instead. 

"That I can try to kill you in your sleep, or that I can succeed in doing so?" Q turned past the empty front of a chip shop, glancing towards the broken window. His stomach grumbled. They hadn't found much food in the house that hadn't gone rancid and the smell had put him off eating what they had found. Chips, he thought mournfully. Chips, vinegar, and a steak and kidney pie. He wished that he'd taken more time to enjoy food regularly when he'd had the chance. 

"How much hand-to-hand training did you get?" Bond asked. Q blinked at him, the thoughts of greasy foods flying away. 

"Technicians and office personnel go through a two-week self-defense course," he said. It had been a pointless, annoying waste of time. Q hadn't once gotten into a situation where violence had been his only option. He was too smart to let it happen, and he'd always had his work and personal mobiles on his person as a way out. Bond shook his head, the corner of his mouth twisting into a frown. 

"Did they give you a whistle as well?" He asked, tone dark and dismissive. Q pressed his lips together, affronted and annoyed. It was going to be one of those days, then. And it had started so well. 

"Not all of us are meant to rely on our brute strength to work out our issues," he said tightly. Bond gave him an inscrutable look, pinning him down with the brightness of his eyes. Q turned away from him, staring instead at the stretch of road that loomed ahead of them. They were maybe a kilometre from the edge of town. Bond said they'd be in Glencoe in four days with the bikes if they kept a four-hour travel schedule. 

Four hours of Bond being a twat, and then a few more where he could lock himself into an upper storey floor with the components he'd been collecting. Bond could be stroppy all on his own, and Q could ignore him until he got over it. Neat and sorted. 

"Maybe before," Bond murmured. 

They rode in silence for an hour. The drizzle turned into light rain. Q shivered through it, shoulders aching as he hunched into himself. There would be snow soon. He hoped they made it to wherever Bond was taking them before then. The rain was bad enough. 

"Stop," Bond said, inching his bike closer to Q's. Q awkwardly backpedaled, wavering for a moment before getting a foot on the ground. His knee popped when he stretched it. His thighs hurt, but there was no way in hell he was going to let Bond know. Not after the self-defense crack. 

"What are you doing?" Q asked as Bond undid the buttons of his coat and slid it off. "Put that back on. It's freezing." Bond rose one eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, and pulled his grey and black jumper off. The t-shirt he wore under it was grey, just a bit too tight to have been one of his own. 

"I'm aware," Bond said, pulling his jacket back on and handing the jumper over. It was mostly dry, the wool still warm from Bond's body. "Put it on. I can hear your teeth chattering."

"I already have a jumper." Q held it out to him, annoyed at the stop. If they just kept going, they'd get out of the rain sooner. 

"And I have two stone on you," Bond said, like it mattered at all. "Put it on before it gets soaked through. Hurry up."

"I'm not a child." Q unzipped his parka and pulled it off, a cold chill running up his spine. He jerked Bond's jumper over his head and yanked his parka back on, zipping up as quickly as he could. The slightly stale musk of Bond's sweat surrounded him, familiar from a fortnight's worth of sleeping arrangements. They both needed proper baths, something more than a quick scrub with limited water and the sliver of soap they'd taken several houses ago, but Q didn't foresee that happening anytime soon. 

Bond pedaled forward without another word, Q scrambling to follow him. With the added layer, he almost felt like he could keep going for another three hours. 

\---

"Balquhidder," Q said, testing out the strange letters on his tongue. Bond laughed, wiping the dampness from his face with his wrist. He repeated it, his accent deepening as the word rolled over his tongue. Q squirmed on the seat of his bike and told himself it was from the cold. "Regardless of the pronunciation, it's a village entirely dedicated to the grave of a glorified thief."

"Watch it, pup," Bond said, steering them past the ruins of the stone church and the small graveyard that had been more tourist trap than anything else. Even though he knew that the scarecrows weren't zombies, even though he knew they hadn't risen from the grave, he still shuddered as they passed. "You're still speaking to a Scot." 

"Will you be putting on a kilt anytime soon?" Q asked, mouth running ahead of his brain. The tips of his ears went hot under his beanie as Bond laughed. 

"I will if you will," Bond said. The image of Bond in a kilt should have been ridiculous, but Q's mind stuttered on it for an unforgivably long time. Perhaps he needed a wank. It had been a long time since he'd found time to go on the pull before the apocalypse. A good wank and he could stop letting things like Bond's bare calves get him worked up. 

They rode alongside the loch, following the trail. It was beautiful, the water shifting with the rain, not quite frozen over. Mountains rose in the distance, surrounding the glen on all sides. A heavily wooded area blocked off the right side of the trail, raising up into the swell of a hill. Bond rode between Q and the woods, head turning every so often to scan the trees. 

Q had gone into Scotland once or twice during Uni, but he hadn't ever traveled to the Highlands. There wasn't anything in them for him back then.Nature had never been big in his books. Too cold, too hot, too damp. Inside, he had his computers and telly and the ability to somewhat control the temperature. 

If he had known just how breathtakingly gorgeous it all was, maybe he would have- No, he thought, glancing up the trail to the tiny village. He wouldn't have. After Uni, he'd started at MI6 and even the idea of travel had made him irritated and tetchy. 

Bond had grown up in Scotland, at least for a while. Q hadn't read much of his file from before Bond was promoted into the Double O programme, hadn't seen the point of it, but he knew that this was near Bond's home. Maybe it had cultivated the wild creature Bond had become. It seemed to fit him, the same way his suits had. 

"Here we are," Bond said, stopping in front of the closed gates of a stone fence. The massive building at the end of the gravel driveway was darkened by the shadow of the mountain that rose up behind it, but it still looked grand and new and sharp. The grounds had gone a bit wild, grass grown too long and ivy creeping up over the stone of the building. "Monachyle Mhor."

"It's very… pink," Q said. Bond laughed, leading the way up the driveway. Up close, the pastel color of the stone looked even more glaring. Q's legs shook as he dismounted, knees nearly giving out on him. A steady ache already pulsed in his thighs. He'd have to remember to stretch before going to sleep or risk cramps all of the next day. 

"Ah, but it has a lovely generator that attaches to even lovelier showers," Bond said. "Stayed here during a blackout for a week, never lacked for anything. The owner said it cost a good fortune in petrol, but their rates were exorbitant."

"I take back what I said about hating you." Q closed his eyes and let himself think about a hot shower. A shave, maybe, if he could find a razor. 

"Everyone has a price," Bond said, pushing open the door to the lobby. "I just never expected yours to be so low."

\---

Q scrubbed at his hair, nails digging into his scalp. The water over his back was hot, pressurized beautifully. He decided then, moaning shamelessly, that he was going to move into the shower and never leave. 

It had taken them an hour to clear the hotel. Bond killed two scarecrows in the basement, leaving Q down there with his Walther and the generator while he scouted out the rest of the building. The generator was finicky, the switchboard corroded and in desperate need of rewiring, but Q had coaxed it into coming back to life. It wouldn't hold forever, even if they had enough petrol for it, but it would last for at least the night. 

After, they pulled the bodies of the six scarecrows Bond had eliminated into one of the rooms and burned them, one after another, in the bathtub. It reeked, caking them with the smell of burnt flesh and hair. Q washed the ashes down the drain, his mind carefully blank as the bones rattled against porcelain. 

Presently, all he could smell was the sweet, slightly overpowering smell of flowers. Reluctantly, he turned the tap off, pulled on his still slightly damp pants, and wrapped one of the overly fluffy, if not slightly musty, bathrobes around himself. He dug through the complimentary basket on the sink for a razor, pleased when he found one packed in with a small can of shave gel. 

When he was clean shaven, the man in the mirror looked, at least, a little more familiar. Thinner, a bit ragged, but familiar. 

"I'd thought you drowned," Bond said when Q entered the suite. He was sat at the antique desk in the corner, reassembling his gun with careful hands. It hadn't been fired since London, but Bond still cleaned and checked it each day. Q watched him irritably, wishing he'd shown the same care to the rest of the equipment he'd been sent out with.

"I may take another before bed," Q said, settling down onto the mattress. It sank below him, expensive and soft and covered by an excessively downy duvet. It matched the rest of the room, rusty red and tragically chic. He had expected the hotel to be more… Highland-like. Instead, it was all clean lines and trendy art, something like a place he would have chosen to stay in.

"You might want to," Bond said, pushing away from the desk. "I'm going to cut your hair."

"I know it's always been a point of contention, but I do rather like it this way," Q said, hands automatically going up to his head. His damp hair hung straight, brushing against his jaw. In half an hour or so, it would be back to finicky curls. "Also, my ears stick out when it's short."

"Your ears stick out now," Bond said, the corner of his mouth turned up into something that Q might have called fond. Q scowled at him, flattening his hair down as much as it would go. Bond leaned back and opened the top drawer of the desk, pulling out a pair of scissors that were as long as Q's hand. 

"I'm not letting you take those to my head. For the sake of my sticking out ears." Q hunched into his robe, realizing he was sulking but unable to make himself stop. It was _his_ hair. Bond had no business hacking it off.

"I'm going to start giving you hand-to-hand training," Bond said, inching his chair closer. Q shuffled back on the mattress until his back was pressed to the surprisingly heavy headboard. He'd seen Bond with sharp objects before. It never ended well for anyone. 

"By cutting my hair? I'd hate to have been part of whatever boot camp you went to." Q pulled his knees up, trying to make himself too small for Bond to reach. For all that he was thin, his legs were long and Bond had a surprisingly wide wingspan. 

"By giving you the chance to attempt to hit me, as I'm sure you've wanted to do for at least a year. The haircut is for practicality." Bond put his left knee and right hand on the bed, pulling himself from the chair and onto the mattress. Q choked, pinned in place by Bond's bright eyes on him.

Bond bled sexuality. Q knew that it was part of his job, knew that Bond had been trained to seduce as much as he had to kill, but it didn't change the punch of arousal that hit Q square in the gut as Bond crawled up the bed toward him. 

"What-" Q swallowed and pulled his knees in tighter. "What could possibly be practical about cutting my hair?"

Bond's left hand shot out, fast as a cobra striking, and suddenly Q's forehead was bouncing off Bond's shoulder, his scalp stinging from the unforgiving pull of Bond's fingers in his hair. For a mere flicker of a second, Q froze, torn between throwing useless punches at Bond's chest and rutting against the man like a dog. For the sake of his own sanity, he chose the former. 

"Get _off_ ," Q bit out, knuckles aching as he rammed them into Bond's chest. Bond didn't even give him the reward of a flinch, laughing instead as he released Q and pushed him back. Q could feel the heat spreading down from his cheeks to his chest and hoped that it read as nothing more than anger. 

"Practicality," Bond said with a raised eyebrow. He rolled off the bed and pulled the desk chair into the middle of the room, gesturing to it grandly. Q glared at him. "Humor me."

"I hate you," Q said, reluctantly going over to sit in the sodding chair. He slumped in the fluffy bathrobe, wishing he'd had the foresight to put more than pants on underneath it. He couldn't outrun Bond, but he was notoriously good at hiding. 

Bond combed his fingers through Q's hair, removing the tangles he'd caused and soothing the stinging of his scalp. Q closed his eyes and did his best not to push up into it. It felt magnificent. He wondered, briefly, how things would have been different if 006 or 002 had found him in the tunnels instead. Would they have brought him along to wherever they were going? Would they have left him to rot with the rest of Q-Branch? 

Bond had dug him out with his own hands, shooting scarecrows as they rose, dragging Q along with him until they'd reached the streets. He hadn't asked Q to come with him, had just assumed it as a given. And now, apparently, he wanted to teach Q how to fight. Did Bond see him as some sort of child to be protected? It was as offensive and vexing. Q was an expert marksman and a phenomenal engineer. He was no _child_ , no matter what Bond may think.

"Keep still," James said. Q sighed but kept his head forward and his shoulders down. 

Long chunks of black hair fell to the floor, the soft snick of the scissors terribly loud as Bond worked. He pressed his fingertips to Q's temple, tipping his head to the side. He worked quickly, the slide of the cool edge of the scissors against Q's scalp sending shivers down Q's spine. 

"You look a bit like Merlin," Bond said when he set the scissors down. He tipped his head, eyes narrowed as he scanned Q's face. He stepped back around the chair, brushing his hands over Q's shoulders. 

"Colin Morgan is fit," Q said absently, tugging at his robe to dislodge the hair still clinging to him. It itched against the back of his neck, still damp. He really would need another shower. "I'll take it as a compliment."

"Quartermaster," Bond said, his grin evident in his voice. Q flinched and closed his eyes. Bond had caught sight of the tattoo. "I never took you for the type."

"Then you're a poor spy," Q said, immediately regretting it. The game they played, calling each other names from the past, as if they had any meaning anymore at all, was a dangerous one. It led to thinking that things could go back to the way they were. 

The warm tip of one finger traced the edge of the tattoo at the crest of his spine, all the way around the circle and back again. Q had painstakingly drawn it by hand six months before his eighteenth birthday, guided by the sharp lines of graphing paper. He had only taught himself enough of the language to write the single word and it had been enough. Maths came easily to him, always had, but language grated on him irritably. There was too much wiggle room in the rules. 

It had taken half an hour from start to finish for the tattoo to become real. The pain of the needle over his spine had been awful, jarring in a way no amount of reading had prepared him for. But to see it in the mirror when it was finished was astonishing. The skin around it had been red and irritated and shining faintly with ointment, but the circles and lines and dots were all vividly black and stark. The whole thing was no more than six centimetres across, but Q had been surprisingly satisfied. 

"If I were to guess you had any tattoos, I would have landed on binary," Bond said, nail scratching against the base of the main circle. Goosebumps broke out across Q's arms even as he let out a decisively unattractive snort. 

"Binary," he repeated, shaking Bond's hand off and tugging the robe back up. "How dull."

"What is it?" Bond asked. He set the scissors on the nightstand and kicked at the hair on the ground until it formed something almost like a neat pile. Q closed his eyes and took in a slow, deep breath. He was touch-starved and Bond was impossibly attractive. He'd have to make time for that wank soon. 

"Galifreyan," Q mumbled. He wasn't ashamed, but Bond had a way of making him feel foolish. "It, ah, it says patience."

"Fitting," Bond said. 

He opened his mouth to say something else- something horribly smug, most likely- but a crashing boom sounded up from the floor below them. Q jerked, lurching to his feet, hand stretching for his knife on the nightstand. 

"Scarecrows."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this week. Thank you again for the comments, and have a happy holiday!

Q dropped his robe and yanked on his filthy, still damp jeans. By the time he'd pulled Bond's jumper over his head, Bond had loaded both the gun and the crossbow. Q caught the gun when Bond tossed it to him, wrapping his fingers around the grip tightly and checking the safety. Bond was leaving him as the last resort, but it was better than going in unarmed. 

They crept down the hall together, Bond ahead by two steps, listening for any other sounds. Bond hadn't destroyed the stairs entirely. Half of them still stood, two metres between the floor and the last step. Bond jumped down, leaving Q to awkwardly climb down on his own. He scooted to the edge, legs dangling, and trusted Bond to catch him. The ladder they'd found in the back garden leaned uselessly against the lobby wall. 

The lobby was massive, decked out in the same modern, clean furniture as the suites. A deer skull hung above the fireplace, bright white despite the thin layer of dust covering it. Q shivered under its eyeless stare. He'd always hated those things. They made his stomach turn with the reminder of life taken. 

Bond led them through the lobby, into the main hall, clearing closets and stockrooms as they passed. Anxiety crept up through Q as they worked their way through the narrow, dim restaurant. Everything was so pristine. Scarecrows weren't known for their subtlety, weren't known for being silent. If one was stuck somewhere in the building, it would be making noise, trying to escape. 

Something was wrong, but Q couldn't put his finger on what. 

The hinge on the door to the kitchen squeaked when Bond opened it. Q winced, tightening his grip on the gun. Bond's ridiculous idea for hand-to-hand training seemed less ridiculous now. It might not do much to keep him from being bitten, but it would make him feel safer. 

Bond's arm caught him across the chest, holding him back. He pointed to the preparation island in the center of the room. A pair of trainers stuck out from the side, worn thin at the soles, small and pink. Q's throat closed up, his breath coming in short. He'd seen kids in London, tiny faces made ashen, mouths open wide and hands clawed. 

Bond would have to burn this one on his own. 

The room smelled of rotting meat, whatever had been in the freezer gone bad quickly. Cans and kitchenware lay scattered across the floor, presumably the source of the sound that had alerted them. The door to the cabinet above the island in the center of the room hung half off its hinges, still swinging faintly. 

"A scarecrow didn't do that," Q whispered. Bond glanced up, his jaw tightening. They hadn't run into too many people outside of London, hadn't gone into that many densely populated areas, but it had only been a matter of time. Q wanted his computers. Recon could have been done from the safety of the room, a plan could have been made. He didn't do field work for a reason. He preferred the sterility of a command center, where he could control the outcomes. 

"Stay back," Bond muttered, taking a few cautious steps forward. One of the trainers moved, sliding backward. Q aimed, taking a deep breath. Target, he thought. It wasn't a kid, wasn't a person, wasn't anything but a target. 

"Don't shoot," came a small voice. Bond stopped, crossbow raised, arms tense. Q's finger slid over the trigger. Target. Just a target. "Please. Don't shoot."

"Stand," Bond ordered. When there was no movement, he kicked the toppled shelving next to his foot. The screech of it scraping against the tile echoed across the room. "I said stand."

A pair of small hands appeared behind the counter, followed by the top of a head covered in thick, dark curls. Wide eyes stared at them under long, dyed fringe. The girl couldn't have been more than sixteen, baby fat still clinging to her cheeks. When she stood at her full height, the curve of her stomach pressed out to touch the edge of the island. Q lowered his gun, but Bond held steady. 

"Shit," Q murmured. 

"Anyone else with you?" Bond asked. The girl nodded. Her arms shook, but she kept her fingers spread wide. "Out. Now."

"He's hurt," the girl said. Her voice was lilting and soft, a tremble running finely through it. She glanced between them, her throat working as she swallowed. Q's chest ached. _Target_.

"Move," Bond snapped. The girl kept her hands held above her head as she walked slowly from behind the counter. She looked like she was smuggling a basketball underneath her sweatshirt, the clear bump of baby barely smoothing out at her sides. Q had no idea how to tell how far along a woman was, but she'd already managed the fine balancing act of redistributing her weight. 

Q held out a hand, not moving any closer. She stared at it and looked back at Bond. Bond hadn't moved his gaze from the counter, holding position until Q had, at least, one of the unknowns at his side. The girl didn't take his hand, but she stood an inch to his side, tears rolling down her cheeks. She kept her hands held high. 

A pang of guilt crept into Q's chest even though he knew, logically, that underestimating unknowns was the quickest way of being eliminated. He'd seen enough agents make their mistakes and he had no plan of repeating them. As much as he wanted to keep an eye on Bond's progress as he crept towards the counter, he watched the girl closely, fingers tensing around the handle of the gun. There was nothing but the sound of Bond's soft footsteps on the tile for a moment, followed shortly by a sharp inhale of breath. 

"Looks like he got a knife to the side," Bond reported. The girl let out a whimper, her eyes squeezing shut and face going slowly blotchy. "You, girl, fetch the med kit. One wrong move, anything at all, and I'll shoot you both."

The girl lowered her shaking arms and slowly backed towards the toppled shelves, tripping over her feet as she searched wildly. One of Bond's hands lifted above the counter, waving Q over, and Q sidestepped to it, glancing back every other step to make sure he wasn't going to get a nasty surprise. 

Q stepped around the edge of the island and winced when he saw the boy laying on the ground next to Bond. He looked barely older than the girl, the slope of his nose and cheeks the same as hers. Siblings. His skin had gone pale, all the blood that belonged in it staining his jacket. He kept trying to place his hand over the spot just above his kidney, fighting weakly against Bond's hand. 

"Why are you here?" Bond asked as Q knelt next to him. Carefully as he could, Q gathered the boy's thin wrists in his hands and held them so Bond could work the boy's jacket and shirt up. Neither of them were dressed for a proper winter. 

"We live nearby," the girl said softly. "We've been taking food from here since everything happened." She set the supplies next to Q, stepping back as soon as he reached for them. "Gareth- how bad is he?" 

"I've seen worse," Bond murmured, fingers prodding gently at the edges of Gareth's wound. Q was relieved that Bond hadn't mentioned he'd _had_ worse every other week. The wound ran three inches across Gareth's stomach, deep enough to show the layer of fat below the surface. It needed stitching or gluing. Something to hold it together to start the healing. "It's not going to be pleasant, but he'll live."

If infection doesn't catch him, Q thought as he uncapped a bottle of alcohol. 

"I fell off the counter," Gareth said, turning his head to look at Q. He hissed as Bond wiped the blood away, bright blue eyes squeezing shut. The vibrant red of his hair made his face look even more ashen. "Landed on the- buggering fuck that hurts- landed on the knife block."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" The girl asked. She kept Gareth between them, shifting uneasily on her feet. Every so often she looked down at the steady movements of Bond's hands, but her eyes always skittered away after a moment, her cheeks as pale as her brother's. 

"Christ, Emma, stop hoverin'," Gareth said, teeth gritted as Bond stitched him up with thread and a poorly sterilized needle. Infection, Q thought grimly. For falling on a knife block. Christ. "Let him do the thing."

Q let Gareth take hold of his hand, let him squeeze when the pain got to be too much. The worst injury he'd ever had was a broken wrist in sixth form. He'd fallen down a flight of stairs, brain fuzzy off two hits from a gravity bong. The pain hadn't hit him until morning, screaming agony when he tried to get up from the floor. He couldn't imagine what Gareth was feeling as Bond pulled the thread tight. 

"You need to keep this clean," Bond said when he cut the thread. He taped a square of gauze over it, the lines around his mouth deepening as he frowned. "Try not to land on anything else sharp." 

"Ta. I'll keep that in mind," Gareth said. His fingers slowly loosened from around Q's. He pushed himself up, leaning against the counter and pulling his t-shirt back down. Sweat curled the hair around his temples and made the thin fuzz of his beard dark. He looked tragically young. 

Something protective and bright bubbled up in Q's stomach. He hadn't been able to help the citizens in London. He hadn't been able to save his team or his agents. But Gareth and Emma and Emma's kid, he could save them. Take them to whatever little haven Bond had, build up some sort of life for them again. He and Bond could keep them safe, maybe teach them how to keep themselves safe. 

It didn't make up for his failure. It didn't even start to make up for his failure, but it was something they could do. 

"Bond," Q said, rising to his feet. They were still bare, the chill of the lino finally sinking in. "A word." Bond raised an eyebrow as he strapped the crossbow back around his chest, but he followed Q to the other side of the kitchen willingly.

"He should be fine," Bond said. He wiped his bloody hand on a dishcloth that looked mostly clean. "Lucky it slashed instead of stabbed. Stabs are so much more nasty to handle."

"How long until he's stable enough to travel?" Q asked. He paused, eyeing the broad expanse of Bond's chest. He'd seen the scars in passing, read about them from Bond's after action reports. Bond had survived more than any person should have with more aplomb than was recommended. "For a normal human, please. Not whatever strange breed you are."

"Two weeks," Bond said. Q shivered under the sharpness of his stare. "Though I sincerely hope you're not suggesting what I think you are."

"We can help them." Q scratched at the nape of his neck, the itch of his drying hair maddening. It seemed like hours since Bond had been touching him, since Bond had been teasing him about his stupid tattoo. Life after the scarecrows went too fast. 

"We can't," Bond said. He shook his head, the grim look on his face familiar. Q had seen it post-mission, had seen it over camera feeds and in photographs. Bond had always loved telling him no. 

"Let's take them with us. Two extra hands, two extra sets of eyes." Q leaned back against the counter, the day's travel weighing heavy on him. His thighs ached, as predicted, and his arse hurt from the lack of cushioning of the seat. He had the feeling sleep would come too easily once he was back in their room. "We've got two weeks to get a feel of them. If we-"

"We can't take them with us," Bond hissed, close enough that Q could feel the heat of his breath. 

"We can't _leave_ them." Q gestured to the tragic tableau of them, Emma crouched over Gareth, one hand on her stomach and the other holding her brother's. "They'll die here in weeks."

"Look at them, Q." Bond wrapped his hand around Q's bicep, squeezing harder than was comfortable. It was grounding and upsetting all at once, throwing Q's tired brain into fits. " _Children_. One wounded, one heavily pregnant, neither of them with anything warmer than a jumper. If we take them out there, they'll die in days. If we take them out there, we put ourselves at risk."

"We can't do _nothing_ ," Q spat, voice louder than he'd intended. Emma looked up at him, her eyebrows drawn together, mouth turned down in a concerned frown. Q clenched his fist, the stringy muscle of his bicep flexing into Bond's grip, and forced himself to lower his voice. "We _protect_ people. You've devoted your entire life to it. We can't leave them here."

"I'm protecting _you_." Bond shook him, fingertips digging into the space between bicep and tricep hard enough to send shocks of pain all the way down to Q's shins. Anger rose up through Q's chest, fiery and sharp and bright. He jerked his arm away, refusing to let out the gasp of pain that was stuck in his throat. "They stand a better chance here, where he can heal and she has even the slightest chance to survive childbirth."

They were dead either way. It hit Q in the chest like a blow, leaving his breathless. They were dead either way, no matter what Q did. 

"We stay," Q said. He turned away from Bond, clenching his fists tighter. The jagged edges of his chewed nails bit into his palms. He felt irrationally like shouting. It would do nothing but add to the noise pollution they'd created and scare the others, but the sound built up in his throat anyway, tasting of bile as he tried to swallow it down. 

"Until his wound is healed," Bond said. He didn't touch Q, didn't reach for him, and Q was glad for it. "Then we're gone, Q. Do you understand?"

Q refused to answer him. He kept his head high as he made his way to Emma and Gareth. They were watching him warily, still untrusting. Good, Q thought bitterly. They shouldn't trust anyone anymore. Not him. Not each other. Not _Bond_ , least of all. 

"We'll be staying until your wound is healed," he told Gareth. A little color had returned to the boy's cheeks. Q wished for a moment that he'd learned more about anatomy and medical aide before the world went to shit. It would have been infinitely more helpful now. Everything he knew, every last thing he'd devoted his life to, was unnecessary, which made him unnecessary by extension. It prickled under his skin, a constant thread of thought that he couldn't remove no matter how hard he tried. "I can attempt to bolster security here, maybe make the generator last longer. You'll need it."

"Thank you," Emma said softly. She placed a cool hand on Q's and gave him a gentle smile. The guilt built up in him threatened to spill out. He turned away from them, drawing in a slow breath. 

"Get them upstairs," Q said, stepping around the mess of cookery and tightening his grip on the Walther. "He needs to clean that wound."

"Of course, Quartermaster," Bond drawled. Q didn't turn to look at him. He kept his head high as he made his way back through the restaurant. He had two weeks to change Bond's mind, and he'd be damned if he didn't make it happen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Years! Thank you all for sticking around for this weird little fic.

The door opened easily. Almost all of them did here. Small village, likely everyone knew each other and trusted enough not to lock their doors The houses in Balquhidder were modest and evenly spaced, gardens full of overgrown shrubbery and discarded toys. James had put down three scarecrows so far, but the majority of the houses were empty. It bothered him how abandoned everything was. 

003 had been on the information trail before the bombs. She'd sent back preliminary reports on the scarecrows' movements and patterns. Attracted to sound, alive if only on a rudimentary level, natural inclination to flock to cities. She'd been taken down before they'd gotten their hands on anything else. 

James should have been in the field. He'd been heading to Q-branch to collect his kit when the explosions had gone off. Whatever intel existed out there, whatever MI6 could have found, would be long gone. The PM had destroyed their chances with one order and doomed all of Great Britain. 

James cleared the bottom floor of the house, listening carefully for sounds of life. The scarecrows he'd found had been trapped inside bedrooms or basements, pounding on the doors. Whether they'd been locked in when they began to transform or simply gotten stuck, he couldn't parse. The instinct to move to highly populated areas drove them almost as much as the instinct to spread the infection. 

He hated to think what Edinburgh must look like. 

When he was sure that the house was empty, he looted the kitchen and bedrooms, gathering up tins of food and clothing. Earlier, he'd brought Gareth and Emma's things to them at their request. It hadn't been much, but he expected they wouldn't need much. 

Q hadn't spoken to him all day. He'd been asleep by the time James had managed to haul Emma and Gareth up the ladder, curled in on himself in the middle of the bed. The bared back of his neck was strange and tender, and James had felt a clutch of resignation as he manoeuvred Q over enough to lay beside him. In the morning, Q had disappeared into the basement with James' Walther and his bag of tools. 

James examined a pair of battered work boots in Q's size, testing the soles. They'd made do well enough taking a change of clothes from each house, leaving their old ones behind, but stockpiling was always a good option. James missed his suits. They were familiar and sturdy and belonged solely to him.

He paused at the upstairs nursery. The walls were painted yellow and green, carefully neutral colors spread across the room. The crib on the far side of the room had been unused, growsuits stacked neatly on the mattress. A bundle of nappies and dummies sat on the window sill, still wrapped in their packaging. James wondered if the baby had been born, or if the mother had gotten ill before it even had a chance. 

He considered grabbing things for Emma and quickly dismissed it. James wondered, not for the first time, where the father was, if she even _knew_ who he was. The baby would have had a hard time surviving with government support in a world without scarecrows. He didn't expect it to live long once it was born. 

Q did, though. Q had high hopes for a poor kid in a bad situation. As much as he'd seen at MI6, as much as he'd helped pull triggers from afar, he was still hopeful. They needed to leave before the baby came to term. If he got attached, if he let himself think for one moment that there was a chance for it, he'd be devastated when it died. 

James shut the door to the nursery, pulling the rucksack on. He'd gotten enough for the day and cleared the four houses nearest to the hotel. If Q wanted to scavenge, he could do it himself. 

When he returned to the hotel, he placed the tins in the kitchen with the others. Q or Emma had straightened the room back up during the day, clearing out the hazards. James heated a can of beans and ate them over the sink. He was sick of tinned food, sick of the taste of aluminium sticking to the back of his tongue. If they really were staying for two weeks, he might go out on a hunt. His mouth watered at the thought of fresh meat. It would be good for Q, too. The boy was too skinny by half. 

James climbed the ladder to the upper floor, pulling it up after him. He hadn't seen other people in the village, but Gareth and Emma were enough of a surprise for a good while. The doors to the rooms they'd claimed were both open, a trail of wires connecting them. James set the rucksack down next to his room and looked into the one across the hall. 

Q sat cross-legged on the floor in front of one of the beds, a screwdriver in one hand and loose wires in the other. Every few seconds, he poked the end of the screwdriver into the flickering flame of one of the emergency candles, frowning down at his work. Emma lay curled up in the other bed, covers up to her chin, the soft sounds of her breath even. 

"What did you do before all this?" Gareth asked, peering over Q's shoulder. He lay stretched on his uninjured side, arm dangling down next to Q's shoulder. 

"Technical support," Q said, lining up the ends of the wire carefully. James huffed his amusement under his breath. Technical support indeed. Q glanced up at him, eyes blank behind his glasses, and touched the end of the hot screwdriver to a small round of solder.

"You get a degree in apocalypse survival or summat?" Gareth asked. He looked better than he had the night before, more color in his cheeks, his eyes brighter. The chance for infection was still high, but James had given Emma instructions to keep the wound clean. If he left it alone, it should heal well enough. 

"Ph.D. in engineering," Q said, the corner of his mouth turning up. He tested the solder of the wires, set them down, and picked up another pair. "It has its uses." Gareth whistled through his teeth, budging forward on the bed far enough to hang his head over, nearly cheek to cheek with Q. James pressed his lips together, biting back a surge of annoyance, and stepped fully into the room. 

"Update?" He asked. Q didn't look up at him again, focused entirely on his project. Gareth cocked his head, hair bright against Q's. Without the mess of blood on him, he looked older. More Q's age than Emma's. It didn't settle the uneasy feeling in James' chest. 

"Q's been dead busy," Gareth said when Q didn't answer. "Said he can find a way to make the generator go without as much petrol."

"If anyone could find a way to make a perpetual motion machine, it would be Q," James said dryly. 

"Indeed." Q twisted the stripped ends of the wires together and repeated the soldering process. There was a line of pinked flesh along the fleshy part of his thumb, shiny under the light. He'd burned himself again, but it didn't seem to deter him as he worked. "This place will be a fortress when I'm done."

"I'd like a spire," Gareth said, turning back to Q. He grinned, butting his shoulder against Q's when Q set the screwdriver down. Q didn't move away from him, didn't do anything at all to discourage him. James clenched his jaw. "Not a proper castle without a spire."

"You can cut the timber, then," Q said. He snuffed the candle with his fingertips and coiled the wires neatly. "I don't do physical labour." 

"You're going to have to start," James said, voice clipped. Both Q and Gareth looked up at him, Gareth's smile dimming a little. "If we're down for a bit, we're starting training."

"I never agreed to training in the first place," Q said tightly. He tucked his tools away into their kit without needing to look down, one eyebrow arched in challenge. James took two steps forward, pleased when Gareth backed away, and gripped the thin line of Q's arm. 

"Too bad." James hauled him to his feet, dragging him through the door easily, despite Q's weak struggles. Self-defense, James thought grimly. He pushed Q into their room, shutting the door behind him. Q turned on him, eyes bright and angry, a dark flush climbing over his cheeks. 

"What's the matter with you?" Q asked. His hands were trembling even as they curled into badly formed fists. He pushed into James' space, entirely unafraid. He'd never been afraid of James, not after they'd first met, not after he'd watched James shoot a man in the head for the first time. James didn't know if it was because Q trusted James not to hurt him, or if he was just blind to the inherent danger.

"You wanted to stay," James said, leaning in closer. Q stood as tall as he did, their faces barely a breath apart. James wanted to- something. To knock some sense into Q, to rub himself over Q's body like an animal to warn Gareth off. Instead, he grabbed Q's left shoulder with his right hand, tugging quick and hard. Q landed against him, back crashing into James' chest, and James wrapped his arm tight around Q's neck to hold him in place. "This is the price for that."

"Get off me," Q choked out, throwing his elbow back. It dug into James' ribs hard. It would have knocked someone else down long enough for Q to get away, but James had suffered more damaging love taps. 

"You will learn to fight," James said, mouth close to the endearing curve of Q's ear, "because I'm not always going to be around to do it for you, and not everyone you meet is going to be under the age of twenty-five." 

Quick as a shot, Q bent in half, sharp elbow hitting James in the stomach, and yanked his head through the curve of James' arm. His glasses landed on the floor with a clatter, his body following them soon after, Q's balance still unsure, but Q made up for it with a valiant attempt at a leg sweep. James hopped backward, smiling down at him. 

Q had no idea how to fight at all, but he had always been a vicious little thing. If push came to shove, he'd go down swinging, at that was all that really mattered.

\---

They spent the next four days in a steady routine. In the morning, James woke to an empty bed, dressed himself, and went salvaging through the village. Q left him a list of needed items written in surprisingly messy handwriting, ordered by importance. In the afternoon, Emma hauled herself down to the kitchen and made tea for them, leaving James' on the stove or counter for when he returned. At night, James collected Q from Emma and Gareth's room and continued Q's training. 

Q spoke to him mostly in snarls and swears, laid out flat on the ground. James preferred the way it had been before the buggery of the siblings, but teaching Q to be safe was more important than being Q's friend. A trite word for a trite idea. 

On day five, Gareth followed them back to their room. He sat in the middle of the bed they shared, legs crossed and eyes wide open. His wound was healing quickly, a dark scab forming under the stitches, pink skin slowly growing. He'd have a horrendous scar, but James felt no sympathy for him in that respect. He found himself having less sympathy as Gareth settled in comfortably. 

Q fought harder. He blocked punches well, if not easily, wriggling free of James' holds quickly. The three hits he landed were sharp and hard, delivered to their center points with leverage instead of simple force. He was trying to impress Gareth. It seemed to be working if Gareth's running commentary said anything. 

James called them to a halt. Sweat rolled down Q's temple, his cheeks and throat a lovely shade of red. A set of healing bruises ran along his biceps and chest, mottled purple and green. James had avoided his face, but Q had gotten him across the jaw once. It throbbed, a dull and familiar ache that was easy to ignore. James had been proud when the hit landed. 

"Jesus, that was deadly," Gareth said breathlessly. Q glanced back at him, the tension in his shoulders fading away as he scooped up his shirt. Gareth knee walked to the edge of the mattress, palm flat against the gauze on his stomach. The high Old English numbers tattooed across his chest stretched as he moved. They were poorly shaded and ugly, too large on his skin, nothing at all like the delicate circles on Q's spine. 

"Is that good enough for you?" Q asked, slow as he pulled his shirt over his head. His muscles had to ache, unused to all the strain James had been putting on him, but he hadn't complained once. Not to James, at least. "Can we stop this now? I have better things to do with my time."

"No," James said. He took a pair of tracksuit bottoms from the dresser and turned toward the bathroom. "Not until you take me down." 

"You'll be doing this for _years_ ," Gareth half-whispered as James closed the bathroom door. James didn't listen for more. 

Later, when Q curled up on his side of the bed, James crawled in beside him. Their backs pressed together under the duvet, warm and secure and familiar. James thought about Gareth sitting in the spot where their hips were now, thought about the long stretch of the day Q spent in the room across from this one. 

Gareth was only three years younger than Q if the year stamped across his chest was factual. James hadn't taken the time to learn more about him after he'd decided Gareth was a non-threat. Q had never seemed out of place in MI6, unruffled by men twice his age, able to handle his own in intellect, but James had never seen the people he chose to spend his precious free time with. 

James was a possessive creature by nature. Always had been. As a child, he'd snarled and bitten at other children that came near his toys, hoarded Kincade's time as his own. In the navy, he'd kept what few things he owned tightly locked away. With wealth, with extravagance, he'd stopped placing high value on things and started putting them on people. Vesper. M. Q. They were his. To protect, to serve, to hold close. Two had betrayed him. He had to believe Q wouldn't. 

Q winced, the movement transmitted through his body to James'. It was the most he'd given away since they'd started. James remembered the early days of training. He'd always been active, always been physically fit, but a long day of rugby didn't compare at all to a single good sparring session.

James rolled onto his side, pulling the duvet away from Q's body. Q looked back at him, eyes soft without his glasses, and flinched when James' hand curled over his shoulder. He opened his mouth, but whatever complaint he'd planned on gave way to a low moan when James dug his thumb into the slant of his trapezius. 

"What happened in London wasn't your fault," James said as he soothed the tension from Q's shoulders. Q's skin was warm and smooth, unmarked except for the tattoo. The baby fine hairs at the back of his neck caught on James' callouses, pulling just enough to make Q tip his head back. "You didn't give the order. You didn't drop the bomb or pull the trigger for the explosions in MI6."

"I didn't stop it," Q said. He let out a grunt when James pressed hard at the nape of his neck, working out a stubborn knot. "I could have _stopped_ the order. I could have- ow- overrode the detonator in MI6. I could have done any number of things, and instead I ran away like a frightened child and let others die because of my mistake." 

"You didn't know," James said. He trailed his hands down Q's spine, pulling the muscle from the bone, hands spanning wide over Q's back. Q arched away from him for a moment, hissing out a low breath, and then pressed back into his hands. It would have been easy to lean in, to bite the tender flesh above Q's tattoo, to sink his teeth in until they left a mark, but James kept himself still. "You have to let it go. It happened. You can't change it. You can't fix it."

Q edged closer to the wall, drawing the duvet back over his shoulder. James sighed and rolled back over. Q would listen to him or he wouldn't. James had learned not to dwell on mistakes made in the field early on. It didn't do anything but weaken you. Q hadn't had the time to learn that lesson. 

It was another thing James would teach him.


	6. Chapter 6

Q prodded at the generator, pleased at the gentle grumble that followed. It wasn't quite a perpetual motion machine, but it was much more efficient than it had been. Bond had cleared a few litres of petrol from cars left behind, leaving the canisters stacked in the corner of the basement. With the upgrades, the generator could run for at least a year before Emma and Gareth would have to go scavenging for fuel. 

He stretched when he stood, bending his back until the vertebrae popped. Everything ached, his arms uncomfortably tense, but Bond's impromptu massage had relieved some of the pain from his shoulders. Q shivered at the memory of Bond's broad hands on his back. It had felt like a peace offering, even if Bond was too bullheaded to say something as simple as _I'm sorry_.

Q climbed the ladder back upstairs, bag knocking against his sore thighs, and considered what project had the highest priority. He needed to take a look at the well soon. Something had gone wrong with it when he hadn't been paying attention, but he didn't plan on investigating it without someone at his back. Gareth might be up for a trip outside. Q didn't know if he could shoot or not, but extra eyes never hurt. 

CCTV, he thought idly as he pushed the door to Emma and Gareth's room open. He could give them a surveillance system. It would drain the generator faster, but it would add security. The hotel didn't have anything in terms of one set up, which seemed like a completely fallacy to him, but that was simple enough to fix. 

"Want to carry the baby?" Emma asked when Q closed the door behind him. She leaned against the headboard of her bed, face slightly red and mouth open to take deep breaths. Gareth sat beside her, one big hand rubbing the curve of her stomach in gentle circles. He grimaced when Q raised an eyebrow. 

"Better you than me, mate," Gareth said. He pushed down near her navel and Emma let out a happy little whimper. She'd gotten somehow bigger in the past week, all of her shirts riding up high on the crest of her stomach. "I don't have the hips for it."

"And I do?" Q asked, blinking at them. Gareth tilted his head, flashing him a grin. 

"Eh, they'll do," he said. His hand paused, everything about him going tight and still. "Jesus. Q, Q, c'mere, quick." Q's chest tightened as he crossed the room. Had something gone wrong? Emma's nose was scrunched in pain, but that had become a familiar look for her in the past few days. Gareth grabbed Q's wrist and dragged him down, placing Q's hand flat against the swell of Emma's stomach. 

Something moved against his palm. The pressure was slight, a tiny upward thrust that didn't move him at all, but significant. A few seconds later, the motion repeated. Q's fingers twitched. The baby was kicking. 

He'd never been particularly fond of children. They were loud and needed constant care and attention. And they were sticky, which was never good in Q's opinion. But a rush of warmth stole anything he might have said away. Knowing Emma was pregnant and feeling the baby on its own was something entirely different. 

"Ow," Emma said, batting both of them away. "Think she just elbowed my kidney. Stop encouraging her." Emma always referred to the baby as a girl, Gareth a boy. Q had never thought of anything past _it_ , but that seemed… rude, now that he'd felt her moving. 

"Uncle G's gonna teach him rugby," Gareth said, collapsing back against the mattress. Emma kicked him with her bare foot. Q pulled his arm back slowly, mind still turning over the feeling of the baby pushing out into the world. 

"You look like you sucked a lemon," Emma said gleefully. Q shook his head, smiling ruefully. "If you just carry it for me, you can feel her moving all the time. Knee to the rib here, headbutt to the bladder there. Right joyous, it is."

"I think I'll pass," Q said. He sat at the foot of the bed, leaning back against the mattress, and pulled the building plan from under the mattress. It had been the first thing he'd gone looking for when he'd had the chance. It wasn't entirely up-to-date, but he preferred having a plan to work off. 

Gareth and Emma chattered at him while he mapped out the best places for cameras. The hotel was only two floors, but there were other buildings outside that had been used as extra housing. He couldn't put cameras in as many places as he wanted- supplies were limited, and even his generator could only handle so much- but he could make a general overview of the property. 

The plan was to convince Bond to stay. He hadn't given Q any detail about the place in Glencoe other than _secure_ , which made Q's hackles rise. He knew all of MI6's safehouses, knew of many of the agent boltholes, but it wasn't one of those. It had to be something Bond had set up on his own. Q trusted Bond more than he'd trusted most people, but that trust apparently wasn't worth returning. 

If Q managed to make Monachyle Mhor secure there was no reason to leave and Q was nothing if not industrious. It was harder without a computer, without the steady familiarity of coding to ground him, but he was an engineer. He'd impressed MI6 with his computer skills, but he'd won them with his inventions. Securing one section of the world would be nothing for him. 

He planned until Bond collected him for training, marking the blueprints with the stump of pencil he'd taken from the front desk. Gareth followed them into their room, leaving Emma passed out on her bed. She slept more and more each day, her body coping poorly with the stress of the scarecrows and the baby at the same time. 

Q hated the training. Bond was ruthless, barely pulling his punches, laying Q out on the floor without any sort of remorse. Q pushed himself hard, brain working faster than his body possibly could, but every move he made was criticized. No matter how many blows he landed, no matter how many blows he evaded, Bond refused to give him anything more than a nod. It made him angry, and the anger made him sloppy, and the sloppiness gave Bond more fuel to criticize him. 

He just wanted one sodding _good job_. Just _one_. It was juvenile and quaint, and he _knew_ it was juvenile and quaint. Q hadn't wanted praise for anything since he was a teenager, letting his work speak for itself, but Bond drew out the worst in him.

Bond worked him until Q's lungs hurt, vicious and terrifying and so competent Q's head spun. Bond was bloody gorgeous fighting, eyes sharp and body coiled tight. He wasn't a particularly good teacher, more about action than words, leading by example. Q would have picked up techniques easier if he'd been given time to read about them first, to internalize the theory before turning them into action, but that wasn't an option. 

Gareth seemed impressed, at least. It didn't do much to soothe Q's battered ego, but the thought of at least one person seeing his improvements was nice. Maybe, if Gareth was up for it, Q could trick Bond into training him as well. It would give Bond motivation to stay for a little longer, at least. 

\---

The temperature had dropped. Q shivered in his parka and beanie, risking a glance up at the grey sky. The clouds hung heavy and dark, preparing to unload the first snow on them. Q hoped that it wouldn't stick, but he held no high expectations. The boots Bond had brought him were warm and, more importantly, promised to be waterproof. 

He knelt next to the water pump, pulling aside the brush that had grown up around it. The metal burned against his fingers as he unscrewed the pump from the main line. Beside him, Gareth hopped from foot to foot, blowing into his cupped hands. He had Q's knife in the pocket of his too-thin hoodie, strapped into its sheath for safe keeping. It didn't make Q feel as safe having Gareth at his back instead of Bond, but he'd do for the moment. 

The filter was filthy. Q broke it open, carefully laying the pieces out on the brittle grass. Whatever water softener the hotel had been using must have run out, leaving the filter to do double the work. Q scrubbed it out, hands shaking as he reached inside the well itself to fetch water. The piping banged at his elbow, the sleeve of his coat almost too large to fit inside, but he managed to scoop out enough to clean the filter with. 

"Where's Bond go all the time?" Gareth asked. Q set the filter into the bowl he'd brought out from the kitchen, shaking it carefully in the water. His fingertips had gone numb entirely. 

"Finding things to do. He doesn't like to be still for too long," Q answered. When he looked up, Gareth was watching him, head tilted to the side curiously. The wound on his side was still a gristly red, the scab forming underneath Bond's stitching unflattering, but he'd stopped bleeding if he moved too much. It was good, it meant that he was getting better, but it also gave Q less time to work with. 

Q replaced the filter, put the pump back together, fitted it onto the pipe, and turned the water back on. They'd have to wait until they were inside again to see if it had worked. Q accepted the hand Gareth offered him, letting himself be pulled up. Item one on the list was complete. He could start looking at the iPhones Bond had brought back from his last trip out and begin disassembling them. 

"So," Gareth said when they passed through the front door. He pulled it closed behind him, shaking himself like a wet puppy. "You fancy blokes?"

"Pardon?" Q paused in the middle of the lobby, mind stuttering. Gareth laughed, rich and hearty. He rubbed a hand over one wind-reddened ear, forever restless. Q hadn't seen him sit still since the first day, when he'd been too busy bleeding to fidget. 

"Not a tough question," he said. He gave Q an unsubtle once over, thin eyebrows raising in approval. Heat crawled up the back of Q's neck, stinging against his frozen skin. "You fancy blokes?"

"I- Um. Yes? Why?" Q winced. He sounded like a teenager again, voice squeaking at the thought of someone paying attention to him. It was pathetic. Gareth laughed again, closing the distance between them easily. He stood taller than Q, taller than Bond, but he hunched down in an obvious effort to make himself less threatening. It was endearing if unnecessary. 

"You're fit, mate, and the only company I've had since everything went down is Emma. Times is rough, but I ain't shagging my sister." Gareth rested a careful hand on Q's hip. Q could barely feel it through the heavy material of his coat. "I know you lot are going to head off to wherever you were going when I'm not so pathetically useless, and I'm not asking for you to go down the aisle or anythin'. Just a bit of fun. If you're not into it, no harm. No harm, yeah? Just thought I'd ask."

"Oh," Q said. He glanced at the door, suddenly nervous for Bond's return. He had the feeling that Bond catching him getting off with one of the outsiders would work poorly in the great scheme of getting Bond to actually stay. But-

But Gareth was handsome and friendly and _available_. Q'd been running hot for weeks, frustrated and unable to get enough alone time to do anything about it. Being near Bond for long periods of time did that to him. It would do it to _anyone_. 

Q tipped his head up and offered a curious kiss. Gareth grinned, his lips curving against Q's, and the hand on his hip tightened. Q pulled him closer, chasing away the last of the outdoor chill. Gareth's lips moved down over Q's jaw, the cold tip of his nose pressing under Q's ear. 

"Let's check out one of the other rooms, yeah?" Gareth asked, warm breath fanning over Q's throat. 

"Let's." Q pushed away from the wall, curling his fingers around Gareth's thin wrist. 

\---

After, Q didn't feel much better. Gareth had gone to his knees, gotten Q worked up and off, and Q had returned the favor. It had been too long since he'd been with someone, the feeling of another body against his foreign and hard to read. Gareth hadn't minded, had laughed and given pleased responses, but Q couldn't quite sink into the way he had before. 

He leaned back against the headboard of the bed, fumbling for his glasses. Gareth handed them over with an amused sound. Their hips were still touching. Q shifted away, suddenly too hot. Gareth rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. 

"You fancy him, right? Bond?" Gareth asked. Q froze, the lazy post-coital looseness fleeing from his body. "Yeah. 's'what I thought."

"No," Q said a moment too late. Gareth rose one eyebrow, the corner of his swollen mouth quirking up. "It's not- We were coworkers before."

"IT for a bodyguard?" Gareth asked. He prodded at Q's bare stomach with one finger, laughing when Q swatted him away. "Doesn't matter. All that stuff before is done, yeah?"

"Bond's not-" Q reached for his pants, pulling them on quickly. He still felt overwhelmingly naked. "He's very interested in women. Very, very interested in women." Q had seen some of the women Bond had been interested in. He'd seen Vesper Lynd in Bond's file. She'd been as gorgeous as she'd been intelligent, even if she'd been a god-awful harpy that didn't deserve the affection Bond had given her. 

"You're as daft as you are pretty," Gareth sighed. He rolled onto his back, unbothered by his nudity, and ran his fingers over his healing wound. It would take a while longer to lose the scab and be fully knit together, but it didn't look like infection would catch him. "You do know you can like both, yeah?"

"Not Bond," Q said. Even if he did, by some strange working of the universe, Q couldn't imagine Bond wanting anything to do with him. Maybe one of the agents, who were as large and impossibly attractive as he was. 006, possibly. Q frowned down at Gareth when he realized he'd been tricked. "Not that it matters. Because I don't _fancy_ Bond."

"Right," Gareth said, voice irritably smug. He sat up, leaned over, and gave Q a quick kiss on the forehead. "Look, mate, I'm dead glad to work out all your tension 'til you get your shit together. But maybe you should wonder why Bond's doing all the stuff he's doing, yeah?"

They dressed in silence, arriving upstairs just in time for Q's training. Bond gave them a suspicious once-over and heat crawled up the back of Q's neck. He didn't fancy Bond because he was not a teenager, nor was he stupid. Gareth collapsed on Q and Bond's bed, chin cradled on his palms, and winked. 

Q grit his teeth and took Bond's beating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going out of town for the weekend, so here is an early update! I am sure this went a long way to improve the public's opinion of the siblings. I'm loving hearing what you guys are thinking while you're reading. It's keeping everything fun for me. Thank you!


	7. Chapter 7

Something had changed with Q. He still whinged incessantly about training, but he'd stopped ignoring James outside of it. James breathed easier for it, annoyed at how much he'd missed Q's company. He spent less time in the village and more time in the hotel, helping Q go through his checklist of improvements. It was good practice for Skyfall.

They had maybe five more days left before Gareth would be as fit as he'd ever be. The scar would be ugly and rough, but the scab had taken and the meat of the wound had closed. James would be glad to be rid of him. His constant chatter and proprietary claim on Q's time grated on James' nerves. 

"Stay with me," Emma demanded when Q wandered off for the storage shed, Gareth trailing after him like a puppy. "I'm sick of those two, and Gareth'll go spare if I go downstairs again. He watched too much telly, and now he thinks all I should do is stay in bed so I don't hurt the baby." 

She widened her eyes in the same way a hundred of other women before her had. It hadn't worked for them, but James still sat on the edge of Gareth's bed, reaching for the cleaning kit Q kept in his messenger bag. Emma watched him closely as he pulled his gun from its holster and began pulling it apart carefully. 

"Q's done a number on the place," Emma said. She pushed herself up to lean against the headboard, her stomach pushing out obscenely. James had seen Q putting his hand delicately over the curve, smiling when the baby kicked at him. He was getting attached and there was nothing James could do to stop him. "I think he's nesting more than me."

"He's always been peculiar about security," James said. He'd never been to Q's flat, but he'd heard about the system Q had made for it, ridiculous name and all. He'd listened fondly to Q rambling about the nuances, asking questions when he understood and letting Q talk at him when he didn't. "It's keeping him busy."

"You two don't really just… sit, do you?" Emma asked. She eyed the pieces of the Walther lined up on the nightstand curiously. James huffed out a laugh, carefully pushing the bore brush through the barrel in his hand. 

"Not exactly, no," he said. There was always something to be done, especially now. The idea of sitting down with a book and relaxing was revolting. He'd cleared the village. There were no more trapped scarecrows, no more immediate threats, but the Highlands were massive and the numbers still worked against them. 

"Maybe you should try," Emma said, laughing brightly at whatever she saw on James' face. "I'm not saying you should, like, stop doing stuff, but maybe relax, yeah? You're working Q up, and he's working Gareth up, and all of you are driving me mad."

"Q's working himself up," James muttered. Emma rolled her eyes. "We're leaving soon. He wants to get everything done before then."

"You really think he wants to leave?" Emma asked. James froze before carefully trading the bore brush for the soft cleaning cloth. The familiar smell of oil wasn't a comfort. "After all the work he's done here? Have you seen how he gets when he's thinking about the baby? You really think he's just gonna... walk away?"

"It's his choice," James said. His chest clenched at the thought of Q choosing to stay behind. He'd be unprotected, become soft with no one to push him. He wouldn't train himself and _Gareth_ would be of no use. He'd die and think he'd deserved it for being unable to stop the inevitable. 

"Oh, for-" Emma huffed, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress. It took her a moment to get to her feet, wobbling for a second as she gained her balance. "Worse than bloody children." She flopped down on the bed next to him, her warm side pressing against his. She laid a careful hand on his knee. 

"You're a bit young," James said, edging away from her. He hadn't cared for teenage girls when he'd been one, preferring the company and experience of older women. The thought of touching Emma made his skin crawl. Emma snorted. 

"Like I'd want your wrinkly old arse near me," she said. James prickled. His _wrinkly old arse_ had seduced beautiful men and women worldwide. "I'm practicing my mum skills. Shush." Emma pinched his side gently before replacing her hand on his knee. "Q likes you very much and would be very sad if you forced him to leave. Because he also likes my twat of a brother and wants to turn my baby into a terror."

"You've got the patronizing part of being a mum handled," James said dryly. Emma's fingers tightened on his knee, digging her fingertips around the cap. 

"So, because you're a _bloody adult_ ," her fingers sank in again. James didn't flinch, but she'd found an old wound and seemed to have no problem leaning in on it. "You're going to use your big boy words and talk to him."

James could have killed her. He could have closed her windpipe, snapped her neck, put proper pressure on the proper points and let her own body do the work. Instead, he looked down at her fragile hand, at the swollen skin around the plain gold band she wore on her thumb, and scowled. He opened his mouth, but a quick series of hacking coughs came out instead of the admonishment he'd been aiming for. 

"All right?" Emma asked, her hand lifting from James' knee, reaching for his face. James caught her wrist, fingers tightening around the thin bone. She gasped but didn't move away when James released her. "Let me-" Carefully, she pressed the cool skin of her inner wrist to his forehead. "You're warm."

"Warm-blooded, cold-hearted," James said, knocking her arm away. He gathered the pieces of the Walther and put them back together quickly. "I'm going for a hunt. There were deer tracks in the woods." Emma sighed and fell backwards on the bed. Apparently, she'd mothered him enough for the day. 

"Go. Go. I'll die of boredom on my own." She scooted backwards, her knee knocking into James' hip, and let out another gusty sigh. "Better than watching you and Q be stupid at each other anyway."

"You'll survive," James muttered. He re-holstered his Walther, gathered up the bow and make-shift quiver from the door, and left her to it. 

\---

It had been too long since James had gone hunting. It was calming. Familiar. The wind bit at his nose and fingers, bitterly cold and refreshing. His eyes stung a bit with it, and every so often he had to stifle a sneeze when a gust of snow blew into his face, but he felt steadier in the tree, watching the ground, than he had for some time. 

He'd been waiting for an hour, his breath slow and even, fingers curling and uncurling around the riser of the bow, when a flash of dark red caught his eyes. The buck was beautiful, thick and dark, idling at the edge of James' reach. He nocked an arrow carefully, willing it closer. 

Three arrows later, the buck went down. 

James spent a fair time cleaning and cutting, breaking the buck down small enough to fit into the bin bag he'd brought from the kitchens. The sun had fallen by the time he'd finished, the cold moving from unpleasant companion to hostile force. James hunched into his coat and hauled the bag back toward the hotel. He felt like a cat, dragging in his kill to impress its master. Q needed a hot meal. He could provide

He'd only gone a kilometre out, the woods thankfully close to the hotel, but his legs felt weak when he returned. He deposited the bag into the freezer in the kitchen, letting himself rest against the door for a long moment to catch his breath. He coughed into the crook of his elbow and let the idea of cooking anything fall away. The climb up the ladder to the second floor made him dizzy. 

Q blinked up at him from their bed. A book lay open on his lap, one finger holding his place as he shuffled toward the wall. James had missed their training, hadn't even thought of it while he'd been waiting for the buck. James dug a knuckle to his aching temple and toed off his boots. 

"You're sick," Q said. His eyebrows furrowed above the frames of his glasses. He placed the book on the nightstand, frowning. 

"I haven't been sick since I was a child," James said before giving a truly pathetic sniffle. He pressed the cuff of his jacket to his nose, grimacing. It was already filthy. A little snot wouldn't hurt it. 

"Well, you've chosen a fantastic time to revisit your childhood," Q said wryly, eyeing him. "Perhaps staying out in the snow for hours wasn't the best plan."

"You don't say?" James snapped. He bit back his annoyance and stripped out of his jacket and jeans. Q was worried even though he had _nothing to be worried about_. James had survived buildings collapsing, stabbings, and shots fired straight through him. The bloody sniffles weren't anything to be bothered by. "Stop fussing." 

"I'm not _fussing_ ," Q said. He slid off the bed, slapping James' hands aside to pull James' shirt up and off. He touched the inside of his wrist to James' forehead, oddly reminiscent of Emma. "You should sleep."

"I will if you get out of my bloody way." James pushed past him, falling easily onto the mattress. Q climbed over him, all warmth and weight, and pulled the duvet up. For the first time since they'd begun sharing a bed, Q curled in near to him, hand once again on James' forehead. 

James was too tired to fend him off. The world went hazy, the pulse in his head not quite gone. He closed his eyes and let the darkness consume him.


	8. Chapter 8

Q woke over-warm and unpleasantly damp, body pressed into the wall. He rolled over as best he could, feet tangled in the blankets he'd kicked off in the night. Beside him, Bond lay curled on his side, closed eyes barely visible over the duvet. His hair had gone limp in the night, plastered to his damp forehead. Gently, Q tugged the duvet down. 

Bond's nose was red, his mouth open as he breathed in slowly. Q hadn't gotten used to the sight of Bond sleeping. Not really. He knew it meant implicit trust, knew that Bond literally showed him his back on a daily basis without fear of being stabbed. It was humbling. Not that Q would ever voice the thought. 

He pressed his wrist to Bond's forehead, grimacing at the slick of sweat, and frowned. Bond had been warm the night before, but the fever had risen overnight. It explained the heat of the bed and the way Q's t-shirt stuck uncomfortably to his back. Bond coughed, curling further in on himself, and pulled the sheets back up, until only his hair was visible. 

Q smiled despite himself. Even James Bloody Bond got head colds.

He showered and dressed quietly, slipping out from the room and down the ladder to the lobby. The hotel really was beautiful, even though it had begun to accumulate dust. He patted the deer skull fondly on the way to the kitchen. It wasn't the ideal place to live, but he could make it work. He'd always done his best when under pressure. 

Emma sat at the kitchen counter, balanced carefully on a stool, prodding at a pot of beans with a spoon. She looked exhausted, eyes tired even as she gave Q a smile. She pointed the end of the spoon at the kettle in the corner and went back to poking at her food. 

"Your boyfriend brought us a deer," she said when Q settled next to her, mug of instant coffee cupped between his hands. It tasted absolutely foul, but he'd rather suffer through that than the caffeine headaches that still managed to sneak up on him. 

"Is that where he was yesterday?" Q asked. He sipped his coffee, paused as he took in the rest of her sentence, and narrowed his eyes. "Stop that." Emma grinned. 

"Stop what?" She asked sweetly. "I could have been talking about Gareth. I _should_ be talking about Gareth. You should switch. G's an arse, but he's not going to keel over in the snow because he's old and stubborn." She paused, waited for Q to take another sip of too-hot coffee, and added, "Plus, I know you're shagging him."

"What?" Q asked, pleased that he'd only choked a little. Emma rolled her eyes. Any pity Q had felt for her flew away.

"You aren't subtle, you know," Emma said. "You're welcome, by the way, for me distracting your other half so you could go grope my brother." Q felt the warmth of his ears and cheeks, but refused to be embarrassed by a child.

"Thank you," he said, as sweetly as he could. It still sounded a little choked, but he blamed it on the awkward inhale of coffee that had gone directly into his lungs. Emma sighed and passed the pot and spoon his way. 

He finished off the beans, wistfully thinking of toast and jam. He missed his toaster and his kitchen nook and the sweet, familiar taste of the organic tea he bought from the cafe' by his flat. It was getting easier, accepting that he wouldn't have those things back, but mornings were the hardest time to remember. The selfish longing for his things wasn't priority over the scarecrows. It didn't matter in the long run. 

Gareth stumbled down a while later, yawning into the crook of his arm. He pulled Emma's disastrous ponytail and patted Q's head, stealing the last of Q's coffee from his hands. Q felt justified at the terrible face Gareth pulled after finishing it off. Instant coffee was awful. Cold instant coffee was worse. 

"Chrissake," Gareth mumbled, wiping his arm across his mouth. "Was that dirt?"

"Serves you right," Emma said gleefully. She slid off the stool, steadying herself with Q's shoulder. "How's Bond doing, anyway? He looked sick yesterday. Before he went out into the snow to show how manly he is."

"Jesus-" Gareth backtracked out of the freezer, stumbling a bit over his own feet, the door slamming shut in front of him. "What is that and why is it in there?"

"Bond went hunting," Q said. He wondered if Bond had stayed out in the cold to skin the thing, too. It seemed very… him. "He's got a fever. Don't think he'll be up much today." Emma shook her head and waddled over the pantry, rifling through it until she found a jar of honey. She poured a cup of hot water, put in a staggering amount of the honey, and handed it over. 

"Maybe take a break from rewiring the house into a machine and take care of him, yeah?"

"Yeah," Gareth added, leaning over her shoulder to give an exaggerated leer. It was as unimpressive now as it had been when he'd tried using it in all seriousness. "Take care of him."

"I hope the scarecrows eat you both," Q said, even as he took the mug. 

It was awkward to climb the ladder with the mug in his hand, hot water splashing back onto his chest more than once, but it was still mostly full when he got back to their room. Bond had moved to the center of the bed, the blankets pushed off almost entirely. Q's chest ached at the sight of him. 

He set the mug on the night table and crawled into bed with Bond, ignoring the unpleasant smell of sweat lingering on the sheets. Bond turned towards him, one arm feebly curling around Q's legs. He was shivering, still hot to the touch. 

Q rubbed his thumb back and forth over Bond's jaw, feeling the prickle of his beard. It was lighter than the head on his hair, redder, shot through with grey. Laid out, pale and sweating and drawn, Bond looked old. He was old, Q thought. Nearing forty-five, retirement age for Double O's. Q's lip twitched as he tried to imagine anyone telling Bond he was too old to do his job. 

In the field, he always looked vibrant and _alive_ , quick and sharp and efficient. His face wasn't that of a young man, hadn't been even before he'd aged, but he looked more handsome in a suit than any man had a right to. In the field, he was still in his prime. Ageless. Beautiful. 

Now, he looked his age. He looked broken. Q's chest tightened, cutting off his air supply. For all that he'd been a legend, a hero, he was still just a man. 

\---

Q stayed in bed with him for two days. Gareth brought up hot water every few hours, his laughter and teasing giving way to worried frowns and careful questions. Bond vomited half of it back out, miserable and shaking as he leaned over the edge of the mattress to attempt to get the mess into the pot Q had put there. 

He alternated between cold and hot, the duvet either too much or not enough. After the hot water, after the vomiting, Q wiped him down with a wet flannel, embarrassed for them both. James had fought him off the first time Q had tried to help him to the toilet, but he'd nearly collapsed halfway there, knees giving out on him. 

At the beginning of the second day, he'd begun holding a hand cupped over his right ear after every coughing fit. Q pressed him until he admitted to the ear ache, face turned away and eyes closed. Q pressed an endless parade of hot washcloths to it, feeling a pang as he remembered his mother doing it for him as a child. 

On the third day, he woke to Bond plastered to his chest, sweating and shaking and making soft, pained noises in his sleep. Q closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had to keep himself together to take care of Bond, and that was that. 

"The great James Bond, brought down by a bloody cold," Q murmured, stroking his fingers through the dampness at Bond's hairline. "Bombs, guns, zombies. You've survived all of it spectacularly. I'll be displeased if this is what finally does it."

"Would you miss me?" Bond croaked. Q hid his flinch by adjusting the blankets around Bond's shoulders. Blurry blue eyes blinked up at him. Q's heart clenched. Get better, Q thought desperately. Please, just get better. 

"Unfortunately," he said. Bond's lips parted, but any words he had were stolen away by a coughing fit that rattled the headboard against the wall. Q lifted the majority of Bond's bulk up off of him, rubbing the clammy, hot skin between his shoulder blades until the coughing subsided. 

Slowly, careful of triggering another fit, Q helped Bond lay back, smoothing the covers over his chest. Bond's head lolled to the side, unfocused eyes meeting his. They closed when Q pressed the inside of his wrist to Bond's forehead in a too-familiar ritual. It burned, the heat from Bond's skin eviscerating any hope Q had of calling it a simple head cold. The fever still hadn't broken. 

"Sleep, love," Q said, tracing his fingers over the closed lids of Bond's eyes. After a moment of hesitation, he leaned down a brushed his lips over the burning heat of Bond's forehead. Bond curled back around him, heavy and solid even in illness, and Q took another deep breath. 

Bond had to get better. He _would_ get better. Q needed him.


End file.
